The other night I came home rather late with a load of things from my old place to find Rosie ensconced in the living room talking with two baby faced young men in very neat black suits. I was a little startled – usually we head the kind of young men who come in pairs off at the door by stating firmly that we are devout Roman Catholics and, while interested in inter-religious dialogue in general, are not interested in conducting any at that exact moment. They were very nice young men, and seeing me loaded down with bags of stuff, promptly offered to help me carry the rest in from the car. I accepted, and as soon as everything got into the house I set about putting things away in the kitchen, and listening in on the dialogue in the front room. I tried to stay out of the conversation, but got dragged in a few times by Rosie asking questions about the Apostolic succession (yes, we have a list of every Pope there’s ever been, all the way back to Peter, and no, Mr. Missionary, I have not memorized it because, well, why would you? If I ever need it, I know where it is.), valid ordination, and whether or not the Anglican Church has the Eucharist (Answer: no).
After a while I heard them get up and leave, and went out to say good-bye, thanking them again for carrying heavy things. When they were gone, I fixed Rosie with a severe look, and asked, “Honey, are you really interested in what those young men have to say, or are you just playing with them?” She got the most amazing mixture of shamefaced and mischievous glee on her face, and sheepishly admitted, “Playing. But it’s so much fun!” I had to laugh as I shook my head at her. And then we discussed the ethics of taking them up on their offer of further moving help knowing that we had no interest in converting to their religion at all. Sadly, so far the answer seems to be that we probably shouldn’t. Sigh.
Speaking of moving things, little by little things are starting to look like they should. Yesterday Rosie and I rearranged the living room so that it now looks more like a place where people live, and less like a frat boy’s apartment with furniture shoved in wherever it would fit. There are still boxes covering just about every horizontal surface, but the pile of empty boxes is slowly growing. I’ve been working on my new workroom too, motivated by a custom order I needed to get done. That was when I discovered that the table I’d planned to use as my sewing table isn’t going to work. Either it’s too broad, or, if I turn it sideways and let down the leaves, I can’t put my knees underneath. Yesterday I was sewing garlands sitting sideways at the sewing machine, trying to stretch my foot underneath the table to press the pedal. It was ridiculous. The good news (for me anyway) is that I have my grandmother’s sewing machine cabinet, a gorgeous antique thing of dark wood, complete with her old Singer sewing machine (sadly no longer operational) folded down into the top. It’s been in Mariah’s custody for the last several years, serving as her TV stand. I think I’m going to have to retrieve it.
Other things are going well too. Dancing on Wednesday was a marked improvement on last time. While I was more out of breath than I like, I didn’t have to take my asthma inhaler once, and had some great dances. I also worked with Mr. Zoot on what we’re going to teach my swing kids at their next lesson. I’m planning to bribe them with a few flashy jumping moves so they won’t mind when I make them work hard on their basic Lindy moves for a couple of lessons. I don’t mind doing jumping moves, but I still have issues with any move that requires me to fall (or feel like I’m falling). I’ve gotten so much better at allowing myself to be dipped, and I dip much lower than I used to (especially after Mr. Zoot and Sky decided that I was going to last summer). However, on Wednesday Mr. Zoot challenged me to try the Baby Doll, a drop where the guy stands behind the girl, and she drops straight back into his arms, usually kicking one of her legs up (though you can style it different ways). It’s basically a trust fall, and I didn’t like it. But I did it. It took me several tries, and I’m glad Mr. Zoot was patient enough to let me keep trying until I got it. It felt good to finally do it, but man, it was hard. I’m sure it’s like dipping – do it enough, and you get used to it and eventually even like it. Plus there’s the victory of triumphing over your fears. Still, this is definitely pushing my comfort zone!
Things I still can’t find:
- The one pair of jeans that make my butt look good.
- My black velvet pajama pants I just got for Christmas.
- The scarf I knit on commission that I need to deliver on Saturday.
- My Bible.
- My other hairbrush.
- The tub of home made pesto I got from Mariah