That’s a line from an old song I used to hear during my childhood. I used to sing it around the house during my child raising years, getting a kick out of the next couple of lines,”What a rare mood I’m in, why it’s almost like being in love.” I’m not sure why those lyrics cracked me up, maybe because back then I always thought I was in love with someone–like every few months or so.
But I digress. What I mean to say is, I should’ve known. Should’ve known what this day held in store by the way in which it started. No, I know what some of you are thinking but I did not flub this morning’s coffee. (I haven’t done that in weeks, for reasons unknown.) I got off on the wrong foot because my 11 year old granddaughter spent the night, and shared my bed. I’m not used to sharing my bed, except for occasionally when my grandson sleeps over. It’s not that I minded exactly. My parts have been switching left and right, up and down, every which way but loose lately, so having a bed-mate just added to their general stress. And something I’m not proud to admit: I’ve only read Henry & Beezus one time to Jenny. Anyway, everything has been off lately. Too much feverish sewing, not enough sleep, lingering on the verge of a cold which won’t quite go away or deepen. Babysitting. And then– oh, and then today’s bizzarro bizarre.
Yes, today was not unlike my bout with Bingo this summer. The average age of my potential customers today was sixtysomething. What does that tell you? It should tell you that I was trying to market the wrong product to this age group. For nay, they did not want softies, except in the sense of badly crocheted pot holders and tacky toilet paper cover dillybobs, and butt ugly crocheted slippers and scarves. Though many slowed down by my display long enough to murmur those are cute! or hmmm, so creative, only 1 little girl plunked down money to buy a kitty softie for her teacher.
Well I started to describe the beginning of my day. Aside from the dissociation caused by having my bed-mate, my daughter in-law (who was going to share my YMCA booth to peddle her jewelry), spilled nearly an entire bottle of perfume all over herself. Driving to the bizarre we both got headaches from the stench. I noticed the gas light flash on as I drove away from home, indicating that we just might not make it to our destination. Oh, it’ll be ok, I told myself. I’m sure we’ll make it there, and I can dip into today’s profits to fill up the tank. Ha! What profits?
We didn’t run out of gas, but I took the wrong turn so we had to drive way out of our way before I could turn around. In retrospect, maybe someone was trying to tell us something. Something along the lines of don’t waste your time or wouldn’t you rather be at home scrubbing the john?
Ah, it’s not the end of the world. See, I’m not really keen on a softie making career, it’s not my heart’s dream or anything. In fact I seem to get sucked into it from others who get all enthusiastic about them, and really pressure me to market them. So I get to thinking, Hmm, I could use some extra income. I sure don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing this, even if it did turn out to be a lucrative career. (And that will hardly happen since at best I can make 2 a day.) But to have so many simply reject them! Oh, I would laugh, seriously laugh at myself if I weren’t tired to the bone. So instead, I write this rambly account of my feckless day before getting into my jammies for an evening of the type of consolation which only old, or seriously bad, movies can give.
This was hardly the worst day of my life. In fact, I’m beginning to feel a sense of relief. I don’t have to become The Softie Making Queen of the Universe! I can spend my time pursuing the one consuming dream I’ve had since I was 7. Oh, but I’m much too frazzled to go into all that now, and my bed is so calling my name. . .
(These are the last 3 of 14 softies made in 6 days.)