No, seriously. Well, in my dream, anyway.
It’s a summer day. We’re someplace looking faintly of State Park, in a hilltop parking lot. There are quite a few other vehicles there. Maybe we’re there for some sort of outdoor concert. It has that kind of feel to the day. But we’ve come in two vehicles. We’ve got the Himselfmobile and a sad-looking vintage firetruck. It’s dull and dusty and dirty and rusty, but we love it and it’s OURS.
Maybe we drove there to pick it up. I find myself mildly surprised that we HAVE a dirty old vintage firetruck, but not much.
You know how it is.
So we’re sitting in the Himselfmobile, admiring our firetruck, and getting ready to leave. We do that for a few minutes. (Scintillating dreams I have, no?) I get out of the car, and walk over to the firetruck. I open the door and climb into the cab….
Mercifully, I woke up then, because I don’t have the first clue how I was going to manage to drive that behemoth all the way home.
I’m enjoying the first morning of an extended holiday weekend, drinking coffee and bothering you people.
My big plans for the day are to piece together the back for my newest rescue quilt and get it assembled and basted and ready to hand-quilt. I have the luxury of doing that because Major Mom is doing all the hard work for this Thanksgiving. She does all the hard work EVERY Thanksgiving.
I’ve offered to do Thanksgiving. I’ve offered to open my dusty, fur-covered home for the festivities. Hell, I even clipped the coupon for the special Boston Market Thanksgiving Feast.
Just move all that stuff off the table. No, not that.
No, really, there’s plenty of room there. See?
Strange how nobody ever wants to come HERE for Thanksgiving….