Bwa ha ha ha! I have foiled Atlanta Rush Hour again!
I think. It's almost 6 p.m. I'm going to search for some sushi soon before Monday night choir rehearsal.
Over the weekend I was really sick. Well, moderately sick. Just sick enough that I had to stay home and knit all weekend (when I wasn't sleeping, which I did a lot). So I did. All the ends of the Fairy Princess Lap Blanket are woven in, so it's officially Finished. AND! I made the fingerless gloves from Last Minute Knitted Gifts, too, out of a random ball of Paint Box I bought on sale a few weeks ago. So pretty. And I made the spiral rib pattern go up in the opposite direction on the second mitt, so they're all symetrical an' stuff.
And the boys who have Autism in my classroom really liked them -- the scratchiness of the wool, the bumpiness of the pattern -- and they made our walk to the busses much easier today because my charge actually wanted to hold my hand. Rock on! Does this mean I can count my yarn and needles as a tax deduction?
I had a hard day at church on Sunday. Now, don't get me wrong, I absolutely love my church. Being a minister is my career and all, and I love it. But some weeks I find myself going simply so that I can go to lunch with my church friends afterward. This has been the case a lot in recent months. (I need a vacation. Kind of difficult to negotiate when they don't actually pay you for the job you do. All the other stand-in associates have been sick lately.) Yesterday, however, the sermon was very helpful and fitting to my life. And lunch was absolutely miserable. Some of my lunch companions were perfectly pleasant, and others were so astoundingly rude that I swear it was like being in some alternate universe where their sort of behavior must be okay. I came home and had fantasies about walking out of the restaurant after telling off one particular offender. I sat on the couch going over various bits of the lunch conversation in my head, working on the second fingerless glove with astounding speed. Joel brought me our kitty and said "you're knitting very angrily." And I dropped the needles, curled up beside him, buried my fingers in the kitty's long, soft hair, and squeezed out some hot, angsty, clichéd tears.
And then everything was better.
Knitting is a language my boyfriend can understand. Even if he doesn't know how to knit.
In the face of that, who cares about some jerk's poor behavior over drippy burgers and steak-cut fries a few hours ago?