Kristen commented on not having bought a dresser she liked, and regretting it ever since.
Some of you are old enough to remember when the Thonet [bentwood, cane-bottomed] rocker was a Really. Big. Thing. [Not literally; it was rather skinny, but it fit my nearly nonexistent tush like a pair of Dingo jeans.] I wanted one. [Actually, I wanted both, but I never bought either.] I wanted the chair when I was married to FirstHubby, and he declined. A new one cost around $100, and I was earning about $350 a month, to put it in perspective and not to make it seem as if he were being unreasonable.
Now? It would require a far larger percentage of my monthly salary, and I would not be able to sit comfortably. It is probably just as well that I never had one; it would have been left behind in one of our many moves, along with my hope chest, the gros point rug I stitched when I left FirstHubby, and sundry other artifacts. But still, when I see one, there is a part of me which murmers, How lovely.
Dingo jeans had a seam up the back of each leg that met in an arched yoke across the rump. It implied a bit of gluteal curve for those of us who had none. They were out of fashion by the time I could afford a pair, and the hepatitis I had shortly before Firstborn’s birthday may be one cause of my subsequent weight gain. A decorative seam where I sit is no longer my idea of good design.
I have been having such fun with Trainman this week. He got on the train Monday looking like nerd warmed over. BeadWoman had already snagged the seat next to me, so he sat in the next one up. I leaned forward and asked, “Massey’s?” He grinned.
So there was chicken fried steak for dinner that night, and coconut pie for dessert; he had the custard pie [think flan in a crust, with loads of cinnamon sugar baked on top]. Good conversation, much laughter, and a big hug in the parking lot.
We were sitting in adjacent left-turn lanes, waiting for our arrows, when I rolled down my window and said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this. People are getting suspicious.” He roared.
I turned my attention back to the traffic light. He honked. When I looked over, he whipped off his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and flashed a bit of collarbone. My turn to roar.
I giggled all the way home. No, it’s not romance. But it sure is fun.
We laughed again on the trip home last night. Said he, “I wondered what you’d do if I flashed some skin. I thought you might swoon.”
“And then you thought, Oh dear, if she swoons, somebody is going to have to give her mouth-to-mouth, and it’s not gonna be me!”
I was lucky enough to get in my car last night before the storm broke. As I passed by the train station, the wind nearly blew me into the next lane. I had to sit in my car for ten minutes or so until there were a few seconds of relative calm. I still had to hang up my shirt in the shower and wipe down my shoes and the red bag. I called my counselors and the RS secretary and said, “No presidency meeting tonight, obviously.”
Bishop phoned from the church [he is a better man than I am, Gunga Din] to discuss a couple of callings. I conferred via cell phone with my counselors, and we reached consensus. So maybe next Sunday we will sustain the new sister in my old calling, and another teacher for the Sunday lessons in Relief Society.
The storm woke me again about 3:15 this morning. I have been sitting in my bed, knitting, for most of this time. Frogged half a dozen rows on one of the sleeves, knitted the ribbing for the back so I could free up that ball of yarn, and am about ready to jump back in there and do the same with the other sleeve.
I would much prefer not even to leave the house today. The driveway was a lake when I got home, and it cannot be any better after all the rain overnight. I have milk. I have juice. I have mini-bagels and an unopened carton of cream cheese in the fridge. I have one last snack bag of leftover brownies from Sunday night. I have my knitting. What more could I ask?
[Other than another two hours of sleep crammed into the next 15 minutes; that would be good.]
The knitting is all froggy and croaking, so no pictures today, sorry. But mostly it’s gorgeous.
- 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!