I wissssssssh I’d known

TKGA!  I had a ball.  And a good laugh: my wheelchairs–and it doesn’t matter how many of them I collect–are allergic to knitting conventions.  Period.  I have this 250 lb monstrous one I inherited, and its batteries have died on me twice now–and only ever when it was the start of Stitches.  I was very generously gifted with a red scooter after that last time, when my friend Sandi, a co-owner of Purlescence, found out: it was far easier to transport, it separates into pieces and comes together as a jigsaw puzzle, it weighs 101 lbs assembled, and it can fit into other people’s cars.  Perfect.

So that’s what we were going to take today, with four of us carpooling to Oakland in a Prius.  The hubby charged that scooter up last night, just to make sure it was well juiced.

Guess what had a dead battery in the morning?

At the last Stitches, with the dead black chair, I brought my manual one.  And forgot to put the feet in the car.  Today, with the dead red chair, I brought my manual.  And in the busyness of everybody doing everything at once, we–you knew this was coming–left the feet home.

But at least that manual is really really comfortable, other than that, because I can use my thick air cushion with it.  Now, I inherited it from my friend Lynda, (her story’s on the site but not on the blog), it’s designed to be sat on all day and still be comfortable, but it’s getting up there in years.  I was always afraid it might get punctured, and the cover was getting pretty ratty, so I priced out a new one.

Two. Hundred. Fifty. Bucks?!  For a simple cushion?!  That’s as much as the chair!  Thanks, I think I’ll keep mine.   But I’ve been afraid for years of anything happening to it.  (Update 5/24/09: my medical-supplies catalog wants $700 for it. Just think. $250 was a bargain.)

We had a grand time,  and I signed books at Pacific Meadows’ booth.  Loading everything back into Jasmin’s Prius, I was horrified to find my cushion half deflated.  Oh no!  Maybe, maybe (I hope) the air valve was open.  Maybe it’s not damaged.  I don’t know yet.

But what was funny was the other womens’ reactions: “Oh.  Is THAT what that was?”

What what was?

“We’ve been hearing that, and wondering what that sound was.”

I had just spent the whole day happily playing proud author, showing off, signing books, and being perfectly deafly oblivious to the fact that I was sitting on a giant whoopie cushion the whole time.