Probably off playing with my missing marbles, or discussing the finer points of existentialism with Brother Right.
In News of the Weird, this just in from our North Texas bureau:
One of my attorneys wants me to meet [and preferably fall in love with] one of her clients. Single, younger than I by as much as I am younger than the children’s father. LDS. [She says “rich”. I would be perfectly happy with solvent/stable.] She dragged him into the break room when I was in there, ostensibly to get a Coke or something. I did notice that there was a non-employee in the room, but 99% of my attention was focused on the last sliver of apple pie from the BBQ on Wednesday.
After he left our office, she came back to the break room. “Why didn’t you say anything to him?”
Um, I didn’t know I was supposed to? And I had long-since eaten off the last of my lipstick.
They will be in trial later this month. I have made a note of that date. I will dress cute. And maybe my nails will be done and my bangs trimmed. [This weekend is going to be filled with four sessions of General Conference broadcasts, and that seems a higher priority to me than vanity or my social life.]
But I have learned not to hold my breath, where the menfolk are concerned. Yes, I am reasonably sure that when Brother Right does amble into my life, I will meet him through a friend. Yes, she certainly qualifies as a friend. And yes, the last two RS presidents in our ward did fall in love and get married while serving.
Good news is, his occupation is such that it demands great intelligence and clear thinking. Clear thinking is always welcome in this woman’s world. And I don’t remember him popping up as a possible match on the Churchboy Dating Service. I’ve never seen him at any of our activities. And he’s not in my stake. So, no obvious red flags.
I’m not sure how to tell my friend that just because a guy is the same religion as me, and appears to have a dry sense of humor, and is obviously intelligent, doesn’t mean that he’s the right smart witty guy for me. It’s like saying, “you’re both Jewish” or “you’re both Catholic” or “you’re both vegan [*so* not!]”: it’s a good start, but it’s no guarantee.
Still no word on Cuprit’s whereabouts, and Middlest says that Fourthborn is under the weather and probably not up to nagging either the manufacturer or the USPS. But the EMS shipping which she paid for includes insurance, so it’s just a matter of time for the claim to get processed, or for Cuprit to be found, and either the original or the replacement to get shipped here. Preferably to the proper mailing address; they are saying on the Cuprit forum on DoA that Soom has a bunch of new employees, so that might be where the problems began. The USPS here in the good old US of A managed to get their oar in the water and muddy things up but good.
In knitting news: I bound off Willow’s scarf just as the train pulled into the station last night. Yes, that was a scarf in less than 24 hours. Let us all sing the praise of fat yarn and big needles. I would show you a picture, but on the off-chance that she reads the blog, you’ll just have to wait awhile longer.
I curled up on the couch with the silk necktie skirt and my seven boxes of embroidery floss, and August Rush in the DVD player. I love that movie. Just love that movie. The music is tender and exhilarating and moving, and the final scene where his music and his mother’s music and his father’s music all come together? It is such a sublime metaphor for the love and the longing that brings us home to one another. [I always put my glasses back on and put down my handwork and just watch.]
- 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!