Later, I got another surprise call, this time from out Washington-way (oh, those pesky hyphens). Miss G rang me up to tell me she'd happily paid ten bucks a yard for Westminster fabric. It seems the contrasts between left coast crafters and the miserly midwestern homemakers know no bounds. Still, every day someone comes into the shop and stands transfixed in front of a fabric collection, running their fingers over the edges of the bolts, telling me they're so thrilled I've gone and brought "east coast fabrics" to Indiana. I almost don't have the heart to tell them that Amy Butler's studio is just hours away, in Ohio, or that Kaffe is really an American ex-pat. London was just more to his liking.
Today was a really great day, excepting the cocoa a certain six-year-old spilled under the cutting table, the strange, erratic behaviors of "bottle-less Eli, day two", and that one of my very best customers had to have her dear dog put down. Tomorrow there is some hullabaloo about some stupid football game. (Like I care. Peyton Manning is a choke artist, and the Pack was robbed.
p.s. I just popped over to Harlot's blog. Seems it's silent poetry reading day again, and it's custom-fitted for that filthy, vacationing strumpet. Go read. I know. "Old Joe" is amazing.