Pride goeth before a fall. Sure. Pass up yarn from two shops Tuesday? Easy. No problem. I’m not a yarn whore. Nope. Not on Tuesdays, anyway.
But on Wednesdays? Behold. THIS is what whoredom looks like.
Yep. Nine balls of Jo Sharp Tweed Silkroad (mmmm, merino wool, silk and cashmere). That’s some touchable goodness, right there. It’s most likely going to be a zip cardie for me. That was yesterday. I drove to San Rafael (an hour away) to look at buttons. At a shop I heard might carry some yarn.
Some yarn. That’s like saying Costco carries some food. Dharma Trading doesn’t even really carry buttons – I bought what they had, just so I could say I did. Okay. I went there for yarn. Admitting that you have a problem is the first step.
It’s stunning – the enabling I do for myself.
Our Pioneer asked yesterday:
I just came from another blog where BART was mentioned and now you did it too. What is Bart? Is it available over the counter? Is it contagious? Should I be afraid?
BART, darling one, stands for Bay Area Rapid Transit and it’s our sweet little commuter train. It’s definitely Mass-Transit-Lite: doesn’t run all night, doesn’t go too fast, is pretty dang expensive ($2.65 one way into the City). But what I love about it is that there’s a stop less than a mile from my house. And now it runs all the way to San Francisco Airport. This means, effectively, I can walk out my front (and come to think of it, only) door, walk down the street and go to Italy, without having to drive. I don’t know why I think that’s so cool. But it is.
I had another nice day. You know what? Sometimes I feel guilty about my nice days. Isn’t that silly? I feel trivial writing about gamboling in yarn shops and eating with friends: I don’t have kids, I’m done with school (at least for right now), I work full time but have three days off a week, I only support myself and two cats.
But when I get over feeling guilty (MAN, was I supposed to be Catholic), I enjoy days like today. After the shopping accident, I called my friend Monica. We had lunch. Not no restaurant lunch, neither, I’m talking about the best kind of lunch ever – McDonalds, eaten out of the bag on her lawn in the sun, watching 15-month-old Winter cover himself in ketchup and dirt. He likes sticks. At one point, he dumped his fries into the grass. Then he picked a couple up and gummed them. Monica laughed. I think that’s the ultimate proof she’s a good mother, don’tcha think?
Then dinner with a friend. An ex, actually, but I don’t think of her that way. That would lessen her, and that’s impossible. Always a wonderful time with her. You know those people that you just enjoy? That you can sit across the table from and think, “Day-um. This is fun. I want to hear more.” And you lean forward and listen intently and feel right.
A full, round, happy day. No knitting, but that’s on for today, baybee.
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