Now Norma Knits

Dear Eveready Diner

We love you, you know we do. But THIS is what silver-dollar pancakes look like. (Regular-size blue dinner plate for scale.)

The backstory: When Jenn, Sandy, Leigh and I went for breakfast at the new Eveready in Rhinebeck, right across from the fairgrounds, Jenn ordered silver-dollar pancakes. Ha. When they arrived, they were about 5 inches in diameter. I suppose compared to their regular pancakes, which are the size of a dinner plate, these were to be considered diminutive. Not.

Maybe we've all just become old and crotchety. Or is it sensible? (Because, let's face it, we have all been crotchety for as long as we can remember.) The one complaint we had about the meals we had during this last trip to Rhinebeck was that the portions were too big.

At the Terrapin, we could have died in ecstasy about the wonderful flavors; the warm, fun atmosphere; the great service. We prefer it to the CIA in just about every way. (I know! I dared to say it!)

But the portions seemed, well, out of proportion for a nice restaurant. Too huge! Cut it back, people! I shouldn't have had to take home half of my meal of amazingly tender and delicious venison tenderloin, sauteed spinach and cheesy mashed potatoes, and then, because I had driven all day and it no longer seemed appealing or even safe to eat, thrown it away. That is just tragic and wrong.

Feed me well and tastily, but don't overfeed me, please. Thank you.

Now, back to those pancakes that I got up at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday to create for myself. I was thinking about them all night, so it was good that the time change allowed for me to get up at what my body was telling me was 7:30, but was really 6:30 on the clock, to make them.

I was so excited to use the newly purchased, fairly locally produced, buckwheat flour and "artisan buttermilk" (Pretentious much? I know. Shut up.) from Maine.

I had read up on the abundant heart (and general) health benefits of buckwheat, and I wanted a change from my usual breakfast of late: steel-cut oatmeal with egg white protein powder and ground flaxseed added. I simply could not wait to bounce out of bed and make my pancakes, eat probably too many of them, and be well fueled for a planned day of decluttering and cleaning in this house that has been crazy-neglected for too long now. Yes, I have cleaning help, but honestly it's become pretty much an act of charity on my part to have them come anymore. I feel sorry for them, they're getting old. They do a shitty job and it's getting shittier every week. Let's not talk about it anymore, OK? 

Where was I?  Oh, yes. Pancakes. So I made my batch of wonderful pancake batter using this recipe (I omitted the sugar), and I made and scarfed down a considerable number of those delicious babies. 

And they were so light and delicious and SCRUMPTIOUS, and did I mention LIGHT, that I started to wonder how that could be the case. And then I read the package of the flour I had bought. I thought I had bought wholegrain flour, but I had not. The words "whole grain," or in the case of buckwheat, which is technically not a grain, "whole groat," are missing. And the fiber content per serving is listed as zero (although I will note that on their website, 2 grams fiber per serving is listed -- also, a serving size on the website, 3 Tablespoons, is not the same as the serving size on the package, 2 Tablespoons.)

Anyway. Great gluten-free flour, made AMAZING pancakes, but isn't what I was hoping for -- which was low-glycemic, high-fiber, highly nutritious. I'm sure that many of the other nutritive benefits of buckwheat that I was hoping to gain by eating these pancakes have been milled out as well, and so basically what I have here is ...... white flour. *sigh*

My Overactive Medical Life

Man. Is this the year that I FALL APART COMPLETELY? 

Let us recapitulate the highlights of late, shall we?

1. There is the as-yet-not-completely-diagnosed heart thing, which now has added to it frequent moments of lightheadedness that my doctor's nurse says is "just me getting used to the medications," and some never-before-experienced shortness of breath and a pain in my abdomen just under my ribs, when doing the only thing I am allowing myself to do for exercise -- walk. The folks in my gym are acting like the freaking exercise police and won't let me do more than walk. I got pulled off the rowing machine by my wonderful friend Cindy the Wonder Therapist one day last week. Cripes. I guess nobody wants to have to pick me up off the floor and throw me in the ambulance. It would be rather disruptive, I guess. But, I told her, the hospital discharged me, telling me to "continue normal activities."  She gave me a rather acerbic glare and made me go to the treadmill and do "gentle walking." This, from a Brazilian jiu jitsu black belt. Sheesh. She empathized with my groans, "But it's so borrrrrrinnnnnnnng," but still. 

2. Just before the heart thing happened, I was diagnosed with the narrow-angle glaucoma. Well, not glaucoma really, until and unless an attack happens, and we hope it doesn't reach that point. And this was no big surprise, as my optometrist had been watching this condition closely for about the last three or four years. We are doing the prophylactic laser surgery for that, as I think I mentioned a few posts ago. We did one eye last week, and the other is scheduled for late Monday ("today," probably, by the time you read this. Or maybe "yesterday.")

Well, everything is good with the first eye we did, except when I'm wearing my contact lenses. Every time I blink, I get a line that follows my eyelid down and up. At first I thought it was fluid in my eye that needed to drain out, probably an after-effect of the laser surgery. I thought it would go away in another day or so, or at least I hoped so. But it hasn't. I have narrowed it down to happening only when I wear my contacts, and believe it or not the iris in that eye looks larger than it did before, and larger than the other one, so it appears that now my eyeball is perhaps a different size -- probably as a result of pressure relief from the surgery. In truth, maybe it's not the iris that is larger, but the sclera is smaller. Who knows.

At any rate, now I guess the contact lens does not fit right, and that is what is causing the weird line, like a fishbowl effect, up and down every time I blink. It doesn't happen with my glasses, so it's got to be the contact. Great, so now I guess I have to go in to my optometrist's office and get re-refracted and/or resized for my lenses. I am ecstatic about this, because I haven't had quite enough doctor's appointments lately. 

3. Let's see. What else. Oh, yes. My legs and arms have been feeling like lead while exercising. LIKE SOLID LEAD. And yesterday while on the elliptical machine -- OK, so I lied. I don't ONLY walk. When the exercise police in the gym are not watching, I use the elliptical machine at times, too. But I consider that walking, unless I'm doing the thing I used to do before all this fun stuff started -- that is, using the Tabata Protocol while on it. I hope it is needless to say that no, I am not doing Tabata at all these days. I'm not totally stupid. -- But yesterday while on the elliptical machine, I felt like I was going to topple over, and I felt tingling up my inner thighs. And not in the good way. 

So I stopped and did my stretches and then left the gym. 

4. I think it's due to the medications I'm taking, but my usual voracious appetite is way, way down. I am forcing myself to eat 1200 calories a day. Well, this is funny, because before all this started, I was TRYING to diet at 1200 calories a day, and I was starving all the time. Now I'm forcing it down -- in a formula of as close to 30 grams of fiber I can get a day, as low-fat and low-cholesterol as I can get, and with at least 60 grams of protein. This is not an easy feat. And at this rate, you'd think the weight would be positively FALLING off me. But no. I have lost zero weight. So what the hell is going on here?  

I am just about fit to be tied.  

As I was being discharged from the hospital, the very nice hospitalist asked me, "What medications are you on now?"

"None."

He rolled his eyes upward and made a very dramatic gesture. "Oh, boy. I know what you're going to do. You're going to go home and read the internet and you're going to stop taking your medications! Please don't do that!"

"Oh, no. I won't. I'm a good patient."

"You've never BEEN a patient! How do you know?!"

Heh. 

 

Paradigm Shift

Well, fuck. In the last 48 hours, my life has changed quite a bit.

I spent the last two days as a special guest of the Northwestern Medical Center ICU. 

I went in a healthy, happy, vibrant person with no health issues whatsoever, and came out a bona fide cardiac patient, with a pile of drugs to take each day, and a real cardiologist and everything. How the hell did that happen?

Anyhoo. Glad I'm here to say hi. Hi!

I'm sure there will be more to this story once I feel the energy to tell it. I'm feeling FINE, but a bit shagged from the experience. I will lie low today, that's for sure. I've got more tests and appointments scheduled, but the good news is I did not have a heart attack, for sure. But despite my best efforts, I have not been able to beat my genes.

Friggin' genes.

I want to give a shout out to the truly outstanding care I received at Northwestern. This little community hospital has become a real gem. The nursing staff and the doctors were top-notch and impressive, each and every one. Even the guy who cleaned my room was sensitive, courteous, and lovely.

The echocardiogram technician was sweet, smart, and wonderfully sensitive. We had the best chat while he was doing my procedure. He said as he left, "I think we're cut from the same cloth," and I think he is right. My night nurses (both male) were kind and attentive.

Everyone spoke to me as if I were an intelligent person! <--- that right there gets them a gold star in my book; you know it.

The food was almost as good as I can get at some local restaurants, and a damn sight better than I can get in many of them! I'm not kidding. Grilled chicken that was as freshly prepared and good as I could make it. Haddock that was cooked nicely. Green vegetables that were fresh and really green (and you know how much of a vegetable snob I am!).

Don't get me wrong -- I wouldn't want to permanently move into that hotel. But I was so very pleasantly surprised.

I'm very excited about my new cardiologist. He seems perfect for me. He is "with me" about not wanting to jump onto heavy statins right away, and I can't wait to work with him. Well, I mean: I'd rather not have to work with him, but since my life has changed, I'm glad he's my cardiologist and not someone with whom I would have to butt heads or have a personality conflict or who I felt was arrogant or whatever. 

I do have some cute stories to tell about conversations with doctors, but they'll have to wait, because I don't really have the writing energy for that today.

As it turns out, I was in good company in my experience the past few days. Mine happened just exactly like hers! Except it was a Yorkie, not a cat, and there were no strippers or firemen involved. Those damn celebrities get all the fun.

Is There Anything Sexier?

The architect that we hired all those years ago to do two things -- mirror-image the design that I found in a magazine so that it would fit the topography of our lot, and design us a screened-in porch -- was the biggest waste of money we have ever spent.

Oh, man.

Sadly, that statement is not accurate, because wasting of money we have been quite good at. But stick with me here and allow me the rhetoric, because honestly, he really sucked. I mean, he did the mirror-imaging just fine, but it turns out that my builder said he could have just done that without me hiring the architect to do it. And the one other thing we wanted was a screened-in porch on the back of the house, and the dope architect (and by "dope" I do not mean it in the modern slang sense of the word, but in the traditional way) insisted that we should build a sunroom instead. His words, "Put it this way: You'll either do it now, or later."

So we fell for it. And you know what every couple since 1985 who fell for building a sunroom in Vermont has learned? Building a sunroom in Vermont is right up there in the Top 10 Stupidest Things You Can Do. I won't go into all the reasons why, because honestly, I AM JUST SO OVER IT.

Because now, 24 f^%king years later, after sinking untold thousands of dollars into trying to repair, rebuild, rethink, repurpose that g88damn-piece-of-**** sunroom, we are building.... guess what.... a screened-in porch (with an attached airlock/anteroom thingy). 

Have you ever seen a more beautiful sight than a blue sky over the rafters of a new screened porch?

Me either.

Man, I would like to send that architect a bill. Or let Mr. Jefferies leave him a deposit on his doorstep or something.

 

I Am 52

Up until just a few months ago, I felt like 52 going on 29. 

Right lately, though, I've sort of felt like 52 going on 72. The stiff, achy joints; the sore, tight back; the sore knee -- oy oy oy! When working in the garden, I'm a completely different person than I used to be. It HURTS! I can't reach that zucchini to cut it! I can't bend down to pull those weeds!

This is a rude awakening like no other to me. I was always so critical of people who were "too lazy" to "work hard" and "stay in shape."  

Hell's bells.

I'm lucky compared to many. I don't have Type II diabetes (or anything close to it), I don't have hot flashes (knock wood) or many of the other ailments so common to so many my age. I'm not dead, as are some of my high school classmates. But I do have those blood lipid issues lurking in the background, and I'd better damn well perk up and get rid of these aches and pains. I could have another 45 or 50 years to live, if my genes are any indication, and I don't intend to live them not well.

My name is Norma and I'm middle-aged: Hair dye needed, calorie-counting needed, fiber intake monitoring needed, anti-wrinkle cream needed, no more getting asked for my ID when I buy alcohol.

Sigh.

[sh]It happens, despite our best intentions.

Anyway! I'm not intending to get all morose on ya or anything. My mom's birthday was two days ago, and yesterday I took her out to see Midnight In Paris and to eat French-inspired food at Leunigs (I had beef bourguignon). It was ten freakin' flavors of awesome, all of it. Truth be told, it was just as much my present to myself as it was my present to her. (Bonus!) I wouldn't mind a do-over of the whole thing, in fact.

Here, do this for my birthday: I've adapted it from a meme I've seen on Facebook. 

I would like my friends to comment on this post, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. 

Let's see how creative you are, and how much you can make me laugh. Laughter is the best medicine, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

Can't Talk Now (This Post is Rated R for Adult Language, So If You Don't Like Language, Get the Fuck Out of Here NOW.)

Currently pulling my fingernails out by their roots. 

Put in a too-long day in the garden yesterday, and despite it all I was feeling very on top of things. So I took off my work clothes, took a shower, and immediately did laundry.

Score one for me! So very efficient! 

The fucking brand new Incredible 2 was in the pocket of my cargo/gardening shorts.

So as I was saying, I CAN'T TALK NOW. And after I finish pulling out my fingernails by their roots, I will commence various forms of self-flagellation. 

And no, I did not get insurance. THANKS FRIENDS WHO I LISTENED TO, AND WEBSITES I READ recommending not buying insurance. I could have had a new phone for the price of $6.95 (per month for insurance) plus a $50 deductible. Now, I can have a new phone for $439.99, or I can consider buying a "certified preowned" less-than-latest model something-or-other for anywhere from $139.99 to $289.99. (Which I will not do. I have a "certified preowned" BY ME good workhorse of a phone -- my BlackBerry. It's not a droid, but perhaps bad girls like me don't deserve to have a droid anyway.)

Fuck.

After I finish flogging myself, I will commence flogging YOU. But by then I will probably be too tired or dead to be able to hurt you much, so consider yourselves lucky.

I'm trying the rice trick, but since I can see water sloshing around inside the glass, I am pretty sure it won't work. 

Fuck. 

So the old, broken-screened but reliable workhorse BlackBerry has been reactivated. When the helpful lady tech asked me to dial a number to program it, I could not even remember how to do that, after two whole weeks of using the Android that I was only just beginning to love. At least I did not donate the BlackBerry right away to Goodwill, as I had considered doing. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity-fuck-fuck-FUCK. 

And shit.

And piss. 

And bollocks.

 

Grounded

Well, now. We all know about my traveling mojo as it seems to have developed over the past few years, and so I guess it should come as little surprise that I am still at home. 

And yet, I am surprised.

Good grief. There was a storm predicted for the afternoon yesterday, but my flight was at noon, and I thought I'd make it out before anything untoward happened.  But it was not looking good even as we were driving to the airport in the morning. When I arrived, they announced that my plane was going to be delayed about an hour -- not because of the storm, but because of mechanical difficulties. 

Then, sitting at the gate, the other passengers and I were looking out the windows and going, "Hm. This isn't looking too promising."  

The people with whom I was sitting and chatting, it turns out, were not taking JetBlue as I was, but a different airline, and they were all of a sudden boarded with great haste by the crew. They were just barely told to board when a second announcement was made: "If you want to get on this flight, please hurry! The door will be closed in ONE MINUTE!" I have never seen those crew members scanning those barcodes on the boarding passes so fast.

I said goodbye to my new friends, and then the announcement was immediately made that my flight was canceled. Arrangements could be made right there at the gate, but if the line grew too long, the rest of us would have to return to the ticket counter. Then the announcement was made, "If you have checked a bag, you will have to go to the ticket counter." 

So I rushed to the ticket counter. And the line was already immense (by Burlington standards). And then I saw on the board that the flight that my fellow waiting passengers had been so hastily boarded onto had a new status: CANCELLED. Those poor sods. Well, at least they weren't sitting on the tarmac for three hours or something. 

The storm came more quickly and with more force than was predicted. So anyway, here I am back home, in limbo a bit. Not sure when I'm going to make it to D.C., but it will be replanned sometime and somehow. 

I had a new experience with the TSA. I was patted down for the simple reason that I was wearing a skirt. I do acknowledge that this is no joke: Imagine what-all you could hide under a skirt, I suppose, even though you've gone through the metal detector already. (In my case, just thighs that needed to be shaved, but I digress.)  

I'm still laughing about the instructions the (female) agent gave me:  "I'll be asking you to spread your legs first one way and then the other. And then I'll be running my hands up each of your legs until I meet resistance."

Yeah. That's what he said. 

So, I bet you're all wondering who the winners of my blogiversary comment contest are!  All commenters since February 23, when I first announced the contest, were assigned a number. Then I ran the Random Number Generator for the winners. Here are the results:

1. Winner of the cat mug:  Bullwinkle, who blogs at Out Of Yarn.

2. Winner of the bison laceweight:  Seanna Lea, who blogs at Another Purl.

3. Winner of the DVDs: kmkat, who blogs at kmkat and her kneedles

4. Winner of the cone of cashmere yarn: Elisa, who blogs at Knot Knitting Enough.

I think this is a first in my contests -- that all the winners happen to be bloggers. Thanks for all your comments, and thanks for playing. I've notified the winners via email, except Elisa, whose email address did not come through in her comments. Elisa, I hope you are reading -- and if so, please email me and send me your snail mail address so I can ship out the cashmere.  

 

Had My Fill

I have officially had my fill of computers and winter and organizations that don't answer their emails and take care o' business. And I just want to close my eyes and wake up to find that I am back in Jamaica with the sun shining on me and the warm winds and waters washing over me. The island boys are bringing me my green health elixir smoothies and rubbing my feet [or something] with coconut oil.

I'm starting to think it was a bad idea to take that vacation, for now I know what I'm missing. 

So. Two computers pretty much paralyzed. The one on the right is, as I'm writing this, supposedly repartitioning the hard drive and reinstalling Windows 7. But to me, it just looks like it's doing nothing, which is the state it's been in for the last two hours, at the very least. I have lost track and lost the will to live at this point. I spent the entirety of Thursday evening, much of the day yesterday, and all of last night, running these hurdles. 

The one on the left I pulled out of retirement because it has a really great screen. It's an "entertainment PC" and I thought it would be much better than anything else I have for watching all those shows I've been watching on streaming Netflix. But it won't connect to the internet. So I took it to the boys at Best Buy yesterday, to learn from them that the wireless internet card is "fried."  "It happens."  The unspoken implication to follow that statement was, "in these ancient computers."

It's not really that old.  *sigh*

So it can still work via the ethernet cable, though I will then be unable to move about the house and will just have to be anchored to the cable and therefore my desk. I can live with that, I figure, until my buddy Foster hooks me up with a USB card for connecting to the wireless. At least, I figure, I'll be able to check my email, Facebook, and watch something while the other one is supposedly doing something while that little blue light that says the hard drive is busy just sits there, solid blue.

But no. I just get started on my next episode of A Touch of Frost (my latest TV love), and freaking Windows decides to update. This makes the show halt and stutter and eventually all but freeze, so I gave up. 

And all of this was after I spent many many hours getting the NEWEST (two of these are less than a year old) laptop up and running with my steno software and brought in to UVM to test its ability to speak to the captioning encoder and all, as insurance before I dared to let the guts get eaten out of the other one and Windows reinstalled. There is an awesome sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just knowing that that computer's heart has been stopped, it's been pronounced dead, and then revived on the operating table.

It's an episode of Grey's Anatomy.

"Clear!" Put the paddles on its chest, shock it, and now Windows freakin' 7 is being reinstalled. What if I DIDN'T back everything up that I think I did? What if I FORGOT to back something important up in my Word docs? I am sure that is the case. I am positive. It's just the way it works. I want to puke.

And Mr. Jefferies has had his fill, too:

What a way to spend a Friday evening.

I'm Blate, I'm Blate.... For a Very Important....

Oh, never mind. I'm blogging late. Trying to be funny. Not happening. Whatever. 

So... I've been sore, and trying to avoid knitting because of that. What a PAIN, literally. It's because I know no moderation. You already know this about me. I have TIME. I KNIT. I forget to take a break, I forget to stop, I forget to stretch, I forget to... well, I was going to say I forget to eat, but that would be a lie. I never forget to eat. I wish that would happen once in a while, but that is never a worry over here. So I don't notice that it's hurting while I'm doing it, but when I stop, and when I'm trying to sleep or even after I have slept, OUUUUUUUUCH, pangs of hurt and/or deep-tendon- and back-, and deep-muscle aches. 

You don't need to tell me, "WELL then, STOP DOING THAT." I already know. And you certainly don't need to be a pain in my ass by telling me I'm knitting wrong. I get it. Yes, I knit English. I am a thrower. And yes, maybe you are another style of knitter, but stop getting up my nose about it. Because I don't believe you. Entire cultures knit the way I do, and entire cultures knit full-time and maybe they hurt and maybe they don't, but it is not WRONG. It is just the way I knit, it's the way I enjoy knitting, and I'm too set in my ways to change. Plus, I don't want to!  

My knitting physical stresses are added to by my professional physical stresses and (in spurts) my exercise stresses and my gardening activities' stresses, and all day long, day in and day out for 30 years or so, I am pounding away on my forearms and elbows and shoulders. I suppose something's gotta give. The damage is done, and the damage is deep, and from time to time it flares up in a very big way.

So just shut up already; I do not believe you that changing my way of knitting, given all that, is going to change whether I experience pain. I'm 51 years old, I've been over-using my hands and my forearms and my elbows and my shoulders for a long time, and they are kind of a mess. Knitting in a different style (I've tried) only makes them a different kind of mess and just slows down my knitting to an awful, horrid, putrid, unenjoyable (and yes, just as painful -- actually more painful) crawl. I consider myself lucky that I don't have arthritis -- only muscle and tendon and joint pain. I gave up kneading my own bread years ago for this very reason. Knitting, stenoing, typing, lifting weights, riding a bike, using the computer mouse or tap-pad, using a garden spade or weeding -- they all use my forearms and hands and wrists, and they're tiiiiiiiiiired and they need a ressssssssst. (And now I've got Lilly Von Schtupp in my head. Thank you.)

One person hilariously claimed that I was stupid and I was knitting WRONG ALL WRONG, and that in her highly intelligent and superior [and the only way to knit] method, there was NO MOVEMENT of her hands or her elbows or her forearms. No use of those muscles and tendons or joints whatSOEVER. No USE of those muscles and tendons and joints of the hands and wrists and forearms and elbows! This is really the kind of magic I am looking for right now! Disney fairy mind-controlled knitting! No hands or arms or elbows or shoulders needed! I wish.

I was going to say just F.O.A.D., but that would be rude, so I won't. Well, I will to a couple of people, but not to you. I know, RIGHT?

Ahem. *taking off cranky pants now* 

I am trying to heal, so as much as I wanted to knit yesterday -- because I truly have THE BUG and I truly want to see David's sweater finished and my mother's sweater finished, so that I can work on two other sweaters I want to work on -- well, it's just [assume Dana Carvey's voice in his George H.W. Bush impression] not gon' happ'n. Instead I watched a lot of Eddie Izzard on my computer. And I rewatched Julie and Julia again on the telly, just because it was there. My lack of the ability to figure out the TV remote, and/or the ability to figure out what the hell is on, are epic and pathetic at the same time. I really do want to figure that out someday.

Nah, I really don't. And anyway, by the time I do, the technology will be obsolete. Not worth the effort. 

But I have been doing some more decluttering and emptying of shelves and bins. I've got more piles of stuff to go to various charities, and I've listed some more of my yarn stash on eBay.

Rowanettes, activate!  

There is some Rowan Cork, perfect for knitting the Log Cabin Socks in Handknit Holidays:

And some Scottish Aran Tweed, the same yarn that I used to knit my Garter Yoke Cardi that is featured in my banner above. If you are small or extra-small, this is enough for a cardi of the same type:

I've also got some random balls of Felted Tweed that I haven't gotten around to listing yet, but I will this afternoon. Perfect for lots of little mitts or a stripy sweater:

Go have a look. And a heads up: I had an "oops" moment with the Magpie Tweed, and found two more skeins of it. I THOUGHT I had more. I found it in a different bin. And so I've had to list it separately. 

There will also be a sweater's worth of Jo Sharp Silkroad Aran Tweed added this afternoon:

But first, I gotta eat. (see above)

Bottom Optional?

Those of you following me on Facebook undoubtedly caught my rant on this already last night. How could you NOT? I admit I was going a little bit nuts about it. But [realizing this should BE the biggest of all our problems, eh?] I'm still just a little bit outraged.

I'm getting ready for a tropical vacation, which is a very rare event in my life. As I have mentioned once or thirty times before, when one is a self-employed person it is extremely hard to plan actual vacations. In the past when I have done so, I have inevitably chosen to schedule my vacation the very week that a lucrative job comes in the office, which follows and is followed by an extreme drought in work. So I pretty much gave up planning vacations a few years back. One's "vacations," such as they are, are often foist upon one unwillingly. In order to make a living, one has to be around to catch the work when it flies in on the silver wings of a dove. It really is rather aggravating at times, this self-employment thing. 

Anywayyyyyyy, I ordered a swimsuit from Spanx. It's ridiculously expensive, but I thought I deserved a nice suit, and I figured it would instantly transform me into a glorious goddess of the beach and the sun. You know -- as they do. See? I'd look just like this:

However, it arrived last night and the order was not complete. THERE WAS NO BOTTOM.  [Wow, I will really need that Brazilian wax now.]

I called to tell them. [Not about the Brazilian. About the missing bottom.]

And the uber-cheerful and perky thang who answered the phone told me that I had only ordered the top. And she further went on to say that "it even says so, right on the page."

So I [had not yet sunk into the sneaky hate spiral that I later sunk into] said to her that that was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. A tankini is, by definition, TWO PIECES, and the price certainly indicates that it is NOT A SEPARATE, but a whole swimsuit. But I believed what she said, told her I was nonetheless upset, that I'd be sending it back, and hung up the phone. 

Then I went to the computer and pulled up the site. And this is what I found. In the unlikely event they change the site based on my complaint, I'll copy and paste it here:

Chic Trim Halter Tankini

$128

Look stunning while you're sunning with this SPANX swimsuit. Chic trim detail in front flatters the silhouette while halter design offers ample support and coverage for the "girls!"

• Full coverage halter features flattering chic trim in front
• Adjustable halter top, customize for your perfect fit
• Soft swim cups for light support and modesty
• Playful sweep flatters midriff
• Made of luxuriously soft, super-premium jersey fabric

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I immediately called back a second time and re-expressed my displeasure, saying that the woman had told me that it said so right on the page, but it DOESN'T. And reiterating that it says swimSUIT, and that a tankini is by definition two pieces. And the price certainly is commensurate with a not-cheap swimSUIT, not just a halter top. And I said that I can't believe they won't be inundated by more of this same complaint on this. The helpful man who answered the phone listened politely and said he would "pass it along." I am not convinced that he will, so allow me to vent here, wouldja?!

My complaint, again, ad nauseam:

It is called a SWIMSUIT. It describes that the halter top adjusts for support. Etcetera. And on the bottom of the page, it says that I might also be interested in some other girdles bottoms, but nowhere does it say I'm only ordering the top and that the bottom is sold separately. And I repeat for the umpteenth time, it is called a swimsuit. Not a halter top. Not even a tankini top, but a tankini. On the previous page, there is another tankini for sale. It has much of the same language, but includes this line: "For even more Spanx shaping support pair with the Basix High-Rise Bikini Bottom." This, to me, suggests that the bottom that comes WITH the suit provides less support. I was thinking it would be a bikini bottom, like most tankinis I have seen, and that if you wanted a full-body swim girdle, you could get their "high-rise 'bikini' bottom." It in no way says that it does not come with a bottom, or that you have to order it separately.

Dear Sarah: Here is the easily-found definition of a tankini, all over the web:

Definitions of Tankini on the Web:

• The tankini is a swimsuit combining a tank top, mostly made of spandex-and-cotton or Lycra-and-nylon, and a bikini bottom introduced in the late 1990s. ...
  en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tankini

   

• A bathing suit composed of a tank top and the lower half of a bikini
  en.wiktionary.org/wiki/tankini

   

• A contemporary style of swimsuit that combines the comfort and coverage of a tank top with a traditional bikini bottom.
  style.ralphlauren.com/glossary/default.asp

   

• A two-piece bathing suit with the upper portion resembling a tank top.
  www.mollybloom.com/style-glossary/

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The resort I am going to I think has a top-optional beach, but I don't think they have a bottom-optional one. Perhaps Sara Blakely can tell me where to go that I can wear this "suit."

She'd better hurry, before I tell HER where to go with her overpriced halter top and her cutesy-wootsy language about "the girls." They're called breasts, Sara. You're a billionaire now. Let's grow up, shall we?

That is all.  

WTF Wednesday indeed.