Last weekend I was at the yarn shop. I love to knit, and I love shopping for yarn. But I HATE the clickity-clackity women who sit around the yarn shop all day knitting and gossiping. These middle-aged women (and a few of their gay consorts) regard the shop as their personal turf. Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time (and even more money) at several yarn shops, and this phenomenon is universal. I’ve even had women stare me down when I “accidently” sat in one of their chairs when receiving assistance from the staff.
So…last Saturday I was in the shop, browsing through the bins and listening with half an ear to the conversation at one of the tables.
“Are you going anywhere special this spring”
“Oh, I think we’re going to take the yacht and visit the kids.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“But they’re not sure of their schedule, so we might yacht over to St. Pete instead.”
Here are the ways in which this conversation makes me crazy.
- It’s a BOAT! Why do you feel compelled to call it a yacht? I’m guessing that your house is the “estate.” Your cleaning lady is the “housekeeper” and your husband is dead broke.
- Yacht is a noun, not a verb–just like barbecue.
- If you can afford a yacht, you can afford some Miss Clariol. Your three-inch-long skanky black roots lead me believe that your yacht is nothing more than a used bass boat with last year’s fish scales dried up on the hull.
I looked up the definition of yacht and technically it’s any boat over 20 feet. We used to own a 17-foot ski boat. If only I’d known then that it was just three feet short of being a yacht.
I could’ve told people that we were spending the weekend on our yachtlette—drinking cheap beer and eating baloney sandwiches.