crochet:: close encounters of the yarny kind
I’ve been awaiting my box of rainbows’ arrival like a teenager waiting for a text reply. Like the cats waiting for the can opener to finish opening a can of tuna. Like a lion waiting for a gazelle to get close enough. Twitches and all.
I tracked it to Columbus, Ohio. Then it showed up in Kansas City. Now it’s on the way to Des Moines. Noooooooo! Des Moines is further from me than Kansas City! UPS Dude, you’re sucking the life out of my soul here. Tomorrow? Monday? When, oh when will it show up?
To take my mind off the yarn, my Mom told me a story. Because often times, ever since I was a kid, I would say, “Tell me a story”. I drive my kid and the Frankster crazy when I ask btw. But I still ask all the time.
Her story goes a little something like this.
She was sitting with my Dad at his chemo session yesterday. My brother was there too. There was a lull in the usually boisterous banter. She bet my brother that he had no clue what she was carrying around in her purse. My brother took the bait. Fool. He was ALWAYS a sucker for the ‘guess what Mommy has to keep you occupied’ thing. He’s like 36 years old now, just so ya know.
And right then and there in the hospital chemo ward, which has like 40 recliners full of people hooked up to IVs, my lovely Mother pulled out her lucky pasties.
She. is. awesome.
She’s been carrying them around since Christmas. Why, you ask? Because Dad keeps setting them out on the kitchen counter just to be silly. She keeps shoving them in her purse before she leaves for work because she is afraid of what the cleaning lady will think of her.
I sweetly reminded her that the cleaning lady really likes her and could probably care less, but what would the paramedics or the cops think if she were to get into an accident during her commute? They would be thinking hmmm, we have ourselves a working girl here.