I am feeling perhaps a bit greater appreciation for that phrase this morning. Last night, on my way home from delivering the last goodies for visiting teaching, Lorelai’s check engine light came on.
Ordinarily, this would be an occasion for weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. For most of my adult life, car trouble has been the straw which sends the camel to ER.
I am supposed to meet a girlfriend for dinner tonight. She is a temple worker, and I am going to have her help me dial-down the intensity of my nail polish and find a lipstick that is properly genteel. I don’t want to go back to a French or American manicure. I couldn’t have colored nail polish when I was in the interpreting program, and I need more color in my life than that.
Likewise, the hey-sailor red lips which are my signature, and which I wipe down to a stain on the nights I serve as a temple patron, are fine for then, but too much if I am trying to blend in with the other sisters as a temple worker. Jody has excellent taste, and she is vibrant like me, so she is the perfect guide through OPIland and Lipstickville.
I am also planning my regular Thursday night as a temple patron, and I am picking up people for Christmas dinner at Secondborn’s. Ergo, I need Lorelai to be happy.
She has 120,000+ miles on her, so this may simply be a programmed alert which is running on Mormon Standard Time. The amazing thing is, I am perfectly calm about this. Perfectly. I slept like a rock last night, and I woke up rested, and it makes no earthly sense at all.
I cleaned out the left rear footwell last night (that might be the problem). My friend Lauren had given me a raft of vintage knitting needles several months ago, and they’ve never quite made it into the house. So, after work and before visiting teaching, I brought them in. And last night before bed I sorted them into sheep [the ones that will stay] and goats [the ones that will go].
My friend at work remembered to bring her size 9 needles, the size required for casting on Lark’s shawlette, but hers were straight needles, and a cable needle will hold 363 stitches a whale of a lot better than a single straight needle.
In my sheep pile on the couch is a pair of jumper needles (picture a circ which has been bisected, with a stop at the end of each cable). I don’t know if I can squeeze 363 stitches onto one jumper needle, but I am certainly going to try, popping on a stitch marker every 20 stitches or so to make counting easier.
I am giving the Bitties one of my art books for Christmas, filled with James Christensen’s paintings and illustrations. I wrapped it up this morning. Maybe I will give them an art book every year, or something on the fine arts, to encourage them to use their individual talents to bring as much joy into the world as Brother Christensen does with his. One of my friends in the old ward had a large, framed print of Storyteller on Mount Timpanogos on her living room wall.
Life is good, and I am calm, and that is a little weird. It certainly passeth my understanding. I have called into work and will get there when I can. And in the meantime, there are stitches to be cast on, and I have time for a nice breakfast.
- 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!