I hate confessing all the stupid things I do
It makes me look, ..., well, stupid.
Last month, in a fit of financial panic, I sold every last bit of my yarn. For very few dollars. We're talking three big tubs' worth. Nice yarns. Not Walmart yarns. Nice yarns. (You should have seen the look on the face of the woman who bought it all.)
I'm 46. Will I E-V-E-R learn?!
I don't cry over relationships with departed men (or with departed people in general, since--other than Mr. Neighbor, who won't go away--I don't know any), I cry over relationships with departed yarn and fiber and fancy threads and lace and books and spinning wheels and drum carders and grandma's dishes and ....
I'm not whining. Really, I'm not. I'm just ... just ... just ... pointing out how stupid I can be.
Actually, the Universe did gift me back the other day with a practically new pair of slip-on shoes that actually fit my feet. There's a big "activity" room next to the laundry room (though I've never seen any "activity" happen there). There's what I refer to as a Salvation Army table in there. People will leave clothes, pots and pans, magazines, figurines--you know, Salvation Army stuff. The flip flops I've been wearing pretty much daily for the last four or five years finally have big holes in the bottom of them, so I've been on the lookout for a cheap pair of something to replace them with. Well, guess what I found on the Salvation Army table the other day. A nearly new pair of slip-ons. And pink, to boot.
I'm going to go find and do something happy-fying.
Last month, in a fit of financial panic, I sold every last bit of my yarn. For very few dollars. We're talking three big tubs' worth. Nice yarns. Not Walmart yarns. Nice yarns. (You should have seen the look on the face of the woman who bought it all.)
I'm 46. Will I E-V-E-R learn?!
I don't cry over relationships with departed men (or with departed people in general, since--other than Mr. Neighbor, who won't go away--I don't know any), I cry over relationships with departed yarn and fiber and fancy threads and lace and books and spinning wheels and drum carders and grandma's dishes and ....
I'm not whining. Really, I'm not. I'm just ... just ... just ... pointing out how stupid I can be.
Actually, the Universe did gift me back the other day with a practically new pair of slip-on shoes that actually fit my feet. There's a big "activity" room next to the laundry room (though I've never seen any "activity" happen there). There's what I refer to as a Salvation Army table in there. People will leave clothes, pots and pans, magazines, figurines--you know, Salvation Army stuff. The flip flops I've been wearing pretty much daily for the last four or five years finally have big holes in the bottom of them, so I've been on the lookout for a cheap pair of something to replace them with. Well, guess what I found on the Salvation Army table the other day. A nearly new pair of slip-ons. And pink, to boot.
I'm going to go find and do something happy-fying.