About Me

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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!

Sunday, February 19, 2017

"Why are the nuns blind?"

Middlest is migraine-y. Which means light sensitivity and noise sensitivity and mis-hearing of things. (Which is something that most of us in this tribe do on a regular basis, regardless.)

Middlest and Fourthborn were discussing a Tumblr post (hilarious and Mom-friendly), and Fourthborn wondered, Why are we celebrating? (because there was confetti raining down), and then she read the sidebar and discovered that we are celebrating the tenth anniversary of Tumblr. (We being they, because I don't Tumblr.)

And I said, There are none so blind as those who will not see? At which point Middlest asked, Why are the nuns blind? And I said, That's a blog post title.

Middlest reminded Fourthborn that she had milk to drink, then clarified that that was a reminder, not an order, more like an epiphany.

To which I queried, "What about Tiffany?"

And Middlest said, "I dunno."

And I sang, What about breakfast epiphanies?



Word play. It's one thing I miss about my marriage to their father. It was never a competition, more like a verbal Janga that we built together until it collapsed into a fit of mutual laughter.

I wasn't married to Beloved long enough for that to develop, and cancer is a ruthless editor, but I look forward to eternities of mutual discovery like that.

In other news, I get a weekly "you should eat this, it's good for you if you're diabetic" email from my HMO. Today's suggestion was fresh pears. And my response was, "But I don't like fresh pears! Don't make me eat fresh pears!" I loved my mom's canned pears. But canned pears in syrup are not good for me, and as I discussed with Middlest, fresh pears go from rock-hard to overripe in about fifteen seconds, so with one or two rare exceptions they've just gone from the shopping bag to the countertop to the trash.

I left church after sacrament meeting because my left ankle was cranky and inflamed, but not before grabbing my home teacher and another good brother and saying, "I need a priesthood blessing, and I need it now." They are both married to bright, articulate women and didn't even blink. We found an empty classroom, I got my blessing, my eyes leaked a little, I came home, changed into jeans and sneakers, and took Fourthborn home.

I've had a nap, and I've de-nipple-ified the doll hat, and I've put another four rows on the coordinating sweater. Middlest and I had a good, nourishing talk and are currently enjoying one another's company in companionable silence.

Have a blessed and peaceful remainder of the Sabbath, y'all.

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