My black leather jacket has gone missing. Again.
I called Secondborn’s house to see if I had left it there Sunday night when I did my drive-by smooching. I had not. I left a message on Brother Sushi’s VM, asking if I had left it on the back of my chair when I left the singles conference on Saturday night.
I don’t remember if I was wearing it when I went to church on Sunday. I know what skirt I was wearing, and what top, and which shoes. But I don’t remember if I wore the jacket ~ I think I did, but I think a lot of things that apparently have no basis in reality or fact ~ or if I wore my charcoal tweed stole.
I don’t know if this is a side effect of exposure to higher than average levels of ambient testosterone or a early warning symptom of dementia.
Did I mention that a couple of weeks ago, when I left my lunch bag in my car [do we see a pattern here?], that my best friend at work brought two huge chicken breasts she had cooked and offered me one of them? It happened again yesterday.
I had inhaled my breakfast and eaten several spoonfuls of Nutella washed down with a bottle of milk and was starting to think about lunch but not wanting to spend any money on it. Enter another friend, a semi-vegehoovian, who asked if I liked lamb and/or veal.
Not crazy about lamb, not after all that lamburger when the children’s father was getting his MBA at BYU, except when my friend who runs the deli makes gyros, and I have ethical qualms about veal, but was willing to try the meatballs that my friend’s neighbor had made for her, with eggplant [another non-favorite] and tomato sauce over orzo.
If Heaven was in the mood to manifest love by way of neighborly meatballs and vegetables I wouldn’t ordinarily choose, I was not about to quibble. “What? Manna again? You’ve got to be kidding, right? Where are the onions, and why do I suddenly have quail coming out my nose?”
Had a nice exchange with one of the couriers the other day. He came in to pick up a package and said, “I’m here to take this off your hands.”
“Or off my desk, as the case may be?”
“Do you know who the most special people in the world are?”
“Umm, you and me?”
“The people who, in the middle of a busy day, can stop long enough to say ‘yay!!!’ That’s who. People who look for the good in a given situation.”
It is to blush...
While I am up on my soapbox re: the situation out in California and the general level of intolerance from the Tolerant Crowd, here is an essay by the late Davis Bitton about religious bigotry and persecution.
And a deliciously subversive idea from my favorite living writer. But I suspect you came here for the knitting content.
There you go! I am within spitting distance of the hem at the neckline and will probably cast on the first sleeve sometime today.
In other news, I went to the doctor yesterday afternoon and came home with a prescription for Nystatin powder. If that doesn’t take care of my foot within a reasonable time frame, then we will go with the oral medicine. I really appreciate the fact that my doctor doesn’t like to use a howitzer when a slightly larger flyswatter will do.
I also got a flu shot. I didn’t cry, so the nurse drew a smiley on my bandage.
And I managed to leave my tubes of Nystatin cream and the generic Lamisil cream in their ziploc bag on the table in the examining room. Oh where oh where oh where oh where oh wherrrrre are my marbles?
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!