We’ve six days to clean up the house, repair certain aspects of it, pack all of our belongings, uproot about a hundred plants and pack them for transport to an interim garden bed, capture and kennel the cats for several weeks…and we have to leave Sunday night for Portland for my second interview with the software company (so they can hire me before I have to accept the other company’s job offer); another eight hours of driving, another high-intensity interview.
We haven’t time. There’s too much to do, and we’re already exhausted. So we’re at a party.
Of course we are.
The yarn shop in Medford is not just a place of commerce. It’s like some gaming or comics shops, a community focus of like minded folk. This place is filled with knitting little old ladies, every last one of them baudy and rough and looking like someone’s grandmother. They’re great, and we’ve spent many evenings here, Shannon knitting, me reading or writing. They’ve tossed us (they’re too fragile to throw) a going-away party, which means we’ve caught an implied obligation to be present and social and flattered.
So, under the rapidly growing shadow of a falling mountain of duties, we have declared holiday and are sitting, knitting, chatting, and gnoshing.
I’m all right with this. I really needed to catch up LJ so that I could sort out the last week in my head.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry