Yesterday I got a notice/invitation/announcement sort of thing in the mail (etiquette is a foggy area for me), telling us that one of my uncles (who I don't hear from much) was getting married to a woman I'd never heard of before. Hm.
So I'm sitting there, puzzling over the announcement, kind of worried at the obvious evidence of scrapbook-o-lunacy (punched corners, ribbon, etc), and wondering just what my uncle had gotten himself into, now. And this conversation came up:
HUSBEAST, thinking of gasoline to Florida and other assorted expenses: So do we send a present or something?
ME: I suppose we should, since we got an announcement.
HUSBEAST: So what do we send?
ME: I'm thinking I'll grab some crochet cotton from The Pit, knit some doily or other while I'm in Florida, block it when I get home, and chuck it in the mail.
HUSBEAST: I love you.
I guess knitting is a welcome neurosis in my house. At least for the day. (Scrapbookers, don't get offended. You're all nuts. It takes one to know one. I'm an insane knitter. Nice tameetcha.)
When I got married, going on, what is it now, seventeen years ago? I didn't change my name. So I still have the name I've had my entire life, forty years now. Wouldn't you think my family - whom I've also had my entire life - could get it right? Is that such a crazy expectation? Oh well. They cared enough to send the announcement. That's what I tell myself.