Mr. Saturday Night (asleep in my lap)

Once again, the blog-collective finds me typing single-handedly. Stopping the hyphens...now. I have a lapful of toddler, freshly washed, powdered, and sleepy-eyed (sorry, I'm apparently not available in dehyphenated today). Got a surprise phonecall before Melissa and her man boarded their flight to Flaaa-ahda, you know, so I could have a painful reminder that I'm not in southern climes. Then, I got a call when they had picked up their rental car, to let me know they'd seen an alligator crossing the road (cue the wildlife in three, two...), so, while I may not have the scent of sunscreen on my self, I got to share Melly's big safari adventure. Hopefully they won't run over a loggerhead turtle while they're there, or have a giant bird fly into the car as they drive through the "Ding" Darling wildlife preserve. (That's a Becher Haus adventure story for another day... once the statue of limitations has run it's course.)
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. I hope somebody breaks Brady's elbow. Not that I care.) I'll be at Clementine's, trying to get the "turning twenty" quilt top assembled, referree-ing (I looked it up... that hyphen stays) the chiurruns 'till their daddy comes and rescues me picks them up. If you're 'oot and aboot', stop in for spiked cocoa or coffee, and don't forget your knitting. Latah, knittas. C

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.