Backstory: The Hook Of Desperation
By AberrantCrochet on November 04, 2011
This event took place about a year ago. People have heard me tell this story in person, but I’ve never written it down, until now.
It was time for our annual tag renewal on our car. Usually I would do this at the local county annex. I know a lot of people mail theirs in, but I’ve never been a fan of that. I like to have my receipt and new stickers in my hot little hand when I pay. Not wonder if they’ve been pilfered in the mail. After all, we live in the historical district, with an old fashioned mailbox by our door. Not one of those new-fangled group mail boxes like newer neighborhoods have.
Back to my story. However, our county built a whole new annex for our town. I walk in and am immediately greeted by a slick new computer terminal for me to register my name and pick the purpose for my visit from a list of three main categories. Supposedly this isolation of the purposes for your visit, like paying for your tags, vs. filing a title, would help speed up the process. I punch my info in, receive a number to get in line and walk into the new, bigger, better waiting room with my children and their reading books in tow. A sea of people like I’ve never seen in our town lay before me.
Arg! Two hours later I am going crazy. I hate waiting for long periods of nothing productive. What a waste of a precious life. Usually I have yarn or a book with me somewhere in the car, everywhere I go. But not this time. I’ve never spent that long at a tag office before, but I was late to renew as it was, so I had to stick around.
Those three purposes for my visit that I had to register and pick from? That each entailed their own specialized number sequence, making you think there’s a line dedicated for each purpose? Apparently served no purpose. Instead of one list of numbers to watch for yours to come up, there were three. And no particular teller in any order was dedicated to any of the number systems. And out of a brand new office with 10 windows, only three were manned.
Looking up at the “serving now” number, I knew it was going to take a long time to get to me still. I couldn’t take it anymore. I headed out to the car. There had to be a crochet hook somewhere out there! I needed to do something before I just totally lost it. But alas, though I found a bag of yarn, there was no hook.
Out of desperation I dug under a car seat and found out a pkg of Pei Wei chopsticks. Wait! Idea percolating! There’s a file in my purse. Holy cow, I’ll try anything at this point!
So taking my nail file to the chopstick I went to town. And managed to produce the tiniest edge of a lip.
Having finished his book some time before, my son turned dull, bored eyes to my hands with renewed interest. “Mommy, can I try that?” I had to bite back the primal hiss threatening to well up from my soul.
I said much nicer (in my outside voice) “No honey, I’m trying to make a crochet hook.” He continued to watch in new amusement.
I tested it out on the yarn I brought in. Hot damn – it actually worked! Not ideal by any means, but it actually hooked yarn! Bwahahahaha! I felt triumphant in my rebellion. I'm sure I probably looked like a crazed mom, sawing and huddling over my new invention. I did not care.
It was about that time when a voice came over the loudspeaker.
“If any of you are here to renew your auto tags, you know we have a drive through…“
There’s a DRIVE THROUGH?!
Mother of Mary in a flight suit! Why the hell didn’t someone say something sooner!!!!!
With that, half the room jumped up and ran out the door!
By the time I gathered our stuff and retrieved a child from the bathroom, figured out where the drive-through was hiding and pulled up, there were 10 cars in front of me. I continued to tweak my hook and crochet. It only took about 10 minutes for my turn and I was outta there!
Bah! Stupid drive-through. You should be obvious, located by the front door and painted red!
But here it is, The Hook Of Desperation. Yes, it can be done. Give me enough of an edge and I can crochet with anything!
Julia M. Chambers
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