Yesterday at church was pretty good. I wept and smiled through Sacrament meeting, cried when telling friends between meetings, got through Primary just fine, cried some more while telling other friends on my way out the door.
Kristen, I inadvertently deleted your kind comment, but thank you. My fine motor skills are not quite up to par these days. I managed to evaporate a bamboo DP somewhere between church and my couch, although it might be out in the car. I strip-searched my purse, twice, and it’s definitely not in there. Thankfully, these are Crystal Palace resin-infused DP’s, and I have two sets of everything from 0 to 2. When I went into the second package, I found that a DP was already missing. It’s a little like an Agatha Christie mystery: And Then There Were Eight.
I am nearly done with the second repeat of the pattern in BittyBubba’s stealth project. I am still loving it. This is fat(ish) yarn on what are for me middling needles (US 1.5), and it’s all cooperating nicely, except when one of my needles does a Houdini.
The new guy has requested a hat in Packers colors; I spent half an hour or so searching nine pages of chemo caps on Ravelry and tossed every one that I liked into the queue, including some lacy ones should I get bad news about any of my girlfriends.
Speaking of whom, I have plans to get together with one of my BFF’s after the surgery, depending upon when it is scheduled. The new guy will call me on Wednesday when the hospital gives him his time slot. He told me he had lost that battle with his new daughter-in-law, and I said, “Oh good. Then we won’t have to argue about my being there.” He says that we [d-i-l, his mom, and I] are likely to have company, as a number of former petri’s have stated their intention to show up to support the family. I told him that was a non-problem, as I am the one with the sharp, poky sticks.
He also said that from where he was sitting or standing at the reception, it looked as if I had hip-checked a former petri in order to grab the bouquet.
Negatori, GhostWriter. I was merely inspired by a just cause, and extremely determined.
My friend, Bookgrump, posted a lovely photo and story about her dad, for Father’s Day. He had been given a six-month prognosis when she was a teen. He told them that he would dance at her wedding. He did. And at his own, nearly a decade after that. They gave him six months. He lived 23 more years.
I love success stories. Please share yours. I will add them to the scripture study, prayer, etc., hymns at the top of my lungs while driving to and fro.
This is the part where I turn off the AC unit in the front window so I can sluice off and blow-dry my hair and ease on down the road. I think it’s going to be a great day.
PS: MizA, I passed on your experience and excellent advice to the new guy, muchas gracias, along with your email address, along with the emphasis that you were already taken.
Oh dear, the street wreckers-and-fixers are firing up their giant Tonkas already, a full seven minutes ahead of schedule. Gotta scoot!
- 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!