My War on Tags

~ JodiLea

I have very sensitive skin and I hate the way garment tags are always scratching & making me itch. In the old days if a tag bugged you, you simply borrowed your mom’s seam ripper out of her sewing box and removed a few stitches. Wa-Lah! Problem solved.

Things have changed. Not only do you have an annoying tag that is double sewed into your garment, but you may have 3 or 4 of them. Apparently one tag is not enough to convey all the manufacturer wants you to know. This information is so critical that they sew it not once, but twice into the garment.

Last week I bought some new “skinny” jeans. Even though I knew the size they claimed to be was a lie (I have never, nor will I ever be a size 4), I felt so svelte & sexy.  I changed into them as soon as I got home from the store, called 2 friends and made them guess what size jeans I was wearing, curled up on the couch with a good book and some snacks – hey I was skinny, I can eat! An hour later the jeans had to come off. I could not take the tags anymore. They were terrorizing my skin and I just wanted to scream. I think I did scream.

For a half-hour I painstakingly removed the little tiny stitches, and the ones under those, to free my fabulous new jeans of their gnarly parasites. After all that toil, the tag was still attached to my pants. They must be sewing them in 3 times these days. I sigh deeply and loudly cursed, then proceeded with my task. I spend another 15 minutes removing the little secret stitches, which by the way held a seam together, so now I have an hole in my brand new jeans. Oh- and yes, the tag remains.

Maybe you know this already, but I was naive and believed that I was only dealing with thread here. But no. The BASTARDS are now using GLUE. Tags are sealed to the garment by gluing them after they are sewn in. I still fume when I think about it.

OK, we get the fact you want the tag to remain with the garment. But why can’t you make a tag that is not scratchy? The garment is not scratchy, so obviously you have the technology. And what is the deal with tags so large you can write the Constitution on them? Or the five, count them five, tags sewn into one small (size 4 don’t ya know) pair of jeans? Three in the back, one in the front, and one on the outside seam below the hip.

The only person who sees these damn tags is me, and I am not happy with whoever the designer or manufacturer happens to be.

I know who you are. You made sure of that, didn’t you?

Over There

~ JodiLea

I really would have loved to see the 49ers play (and win) against the Broncos last Sunday. But No. The game was not played in this country for some reason.

Why aren’t the UK games being televised in the USA? They are OUR TEAMS, damn it! What does a bloody Englishman know, or care, about American football anyway? Did the NFL get a $%@!-load of money to do this, or some kind of huge perk?

Anyway, at least their Bye week happens after their big trip so they can decompress from it all. I spent hours reading the blogs & sports news about Troy Smith starting that game and I sure would have loved to see him in action. But No.

Next week we face the St. Louis (should be Cardinals) Rams on our own turf.  A Smith will be Quarterbacking. We just don’t know which one.

Sigh……

Elusive Freedom

~ JodiLea


WHEW!

Anyone who has ever had to wear a Medical Alert bracelet knows how difficult they are to put on and take off. I suppose it’s good that they stay on you, after all you have a condition that emergency response people need to be aware of if you are unconscious. So they don’t kill you.

However…there comes a time when you MUST take the blasted thing off.

My time came today. My bracelet got in the way and pissed me off, for the trillionth time. I was tired of the constant scrape, scrape, scrape it made while I typed on my laptop (or any computer keyboard for that matter). I was sick of repairing sweaters and afghans it would snag on. And it would give me an itchy rash when I perspired against the metal.

I decided that it had to go, and I meant NOW. I was never able to work the thing myself, so I depended upon my husband or people at work. I am 500 miles away from my hubby (another story), and I am working remotely. My sister, who I live with for now is also a diabetic. She is very familiar with these things. Piece of cake.

Not. When the end link was in the correct spot, she could not get the locking mechanism apart. When she got the mechanism to open, it was blocked by the link and would not open enough to release me from bondage. We stubbornly tried to attack from all different angles, but it would not cooperate.

My sister is even more stubborn than I am, so when she gave up I thought I would be shackled the rest of my life. Then I had an idea. I would open one of the links on the bracelet and bypass the locking mechanism altogether. I found a link that was separated by a millimeter. It was a start.

Armed with needle-nosed pliers I used all of my strength (grunting even). Not even one more millimeter gave ground. I pleaded with sis, who has more strength in her hands than I do (most people do), and I asked her to try the pliers. She used all of her strength, twisting the bracelet and nearly cutting off my circulation in the process. Nada. Zilch. No movement.

“Enough of this!”, she exclaimed. She marched down the hallway and came back with an evil grin, and her jewelry making kit. She had a tool called a “flush cutter” that looked like a wire cutter to me. I admit I have no clue what a “flush” is, nor do I care. I did care when I thought she said “flesh” cutter, however.

I was skeptical – it was a pretty small tool. She got the blades positioned and she bore down as hard as she could. A dent was made in the link. Determined to prevail, she clamped down on same dent and using one hand on each handle, she tried again. This time her entire body strained with the effort. Sweat beaded up around her hairline and her face scrunched up like a woman giving birth. Rather scary, actually.

My face and body were scrunching up and straining right along with her. Like I was helping or something. When something hit the floor, it took us a few seconds to figure out what had made the sound.

My freedom did.