- 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!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Ms.Ravelled hits the bar...
Courtesy of Fourthborn, and lurking in the fridge for a couple of weeks. We are celebrating. Keep reading to find out why.
She may be “just a kid”, but she speaks eloquently. I really enjoy her column on Meridian.
And Richard Eyre, who also writes beautifully, must have been tired when he proofread his third-from-last paragraph. [I believe that he meant to say “tenets”, not “tenants”. No, I have not read any of Dan Brown’s books, nor am I particularly interested in doing so. But I do have a well-honed sense of irony. So I enjoyed the article.]
My MIA Cuprit, or her replacement, left the factory in Korea yesterday. She needs to get here, clear customs, and then thread the minefield [who knew?] which is the USPS. But this time the manufacturer has the correct shipping address; so now it’s just a matter of her being delivered on a day when Fourthborn’s office is open for business. Most likely next Monday.
I am so jazzed that I woke an hour and a half ahead of my alarm this morning. Thankfully, I have no meetings tonight after work; an early bedtime is a real possibility.
And I have about half of the first bit on my sister’s birthday present done; roughly 3.5 bits to go, and my gauge is sufficiently more loose than the pattern specifies, so that I may be able to get the entire project out of one ball rather than two.
Somebody had fried chicken on the train home last night. Trainman and I were both going out of our minds. After the baptism, I asked several church friends where the closest Chicken Express was, but nobody knew, so I called Secondborn. She told me exactly how to get there. I don’t often get in the mood for fried chicken, but last night my limbic brain would accept no substitutes. Mm, chicken tenders and a biscuit, all dunked in cream gravy. My ankles are none too happy with me this morning, but the rest of me is quietly content.