Molly took a long drag from her e-cigarette, blew a puff of vapor my direction and said, "What're your plans today, lovie?"
Lovie? Who gets called Lovie anymore? Sure Thurston Howell, III's wife went by Lovie, but that was fiction. How did she find my motel room? How did she catch me unaware?
She moved closer to the dog and said, "I think we could have some big fun." She ran her pudgy finger beneath Hazel's chin and said, "You're the loveliest thing I've seen all day."
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Ok. The dog. She was talking to the dog. I knew that. Of course I did. After a shower, some protein, and a long run, I'll be just fine. Maybe. After I unclench my fingers from around a crochet hook and rewind the ball of angora that has rolled to cover virtually all of the carpet on the floor, I'll be normal again.
Then again, I need to quit watching crafting videos on Youtube all hours of the night. I don't need to make any afghans, toilet paper cozies, and no one I know needs legwarmers. If my timemachine back to the 1980s begins to work, or I can catch a ride on the Tardis and I can go back with Doctor Who to the Flash Dance set, I'll be just fine.
Socks. Maybe I can learn to make socks. It would keep my mind off my grandfather's situation, would be usable, and isn't too feminine.
Or not.
My plans?
Plot the quickest route home to get Grandpa back under his own doctors' care, return to my own life, and decide if the crochet shell pattern is too girlie for a scarf out of some great mohair. I have never owned a really great scarf and it is about time.
~~~
Sure, blathering. But haven't been very good the last several days.
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