More Driving Stories and Gram

I think that after the many insults I’ve hurled at myself about driving skills (or the lack thereof), I should mention that I drove home from a city about two hours away today without out a: dying b: killing someone else or c: scratching any cars, including my own. Success! Actually, my only issue (other than the fact that the wind was like TORNADO-esque to my high-profile vehicle) was the fact that I had been reading a book right before I started to drive. You see, I think about books. A lot. If it’s a good book, I’ll end up talking to myself by accident because I’m trying to figure something out about it. This was me in the car:

*thinking* “Hm…I have no idea where this book will end. Well, they’ll leave the jungle…but what next? What exactly does the parrot symbol—AH!”

The small squeak was out loud, and came after being too distracted to counteract a huge gust of wind that was blowing me around the road. Oops.

While on this little escapade, I had my first encounter with a Hobby Lobby store. This store is like heaven on earth to me. Even though I’m pretty uncreative of late, I like to be around creative people and creative things. They also had a bunch of art that would fit perfectly in my room, which had me running from aisle to aisle like an eight year old distracted by row after row of cheap candy in a dollar store. The whole point of the trip was to pick up some yarn for my Gram so that she can knit me oodles of dorm socks on demand and in the colors I want. She didn’t realize that was why at the time, but I think we made it clear when we got to her house.

You see, originally she had asked us to get her about twenty-five balls of yarn. This would make twenty-five pairs of socks. We weren’t complaining, since honestly, these are the best things since individually-packaged cheese slices. We picked out the yarn and drove to her apartment, there emptying the bags on the floor.

She screamed.

Apparently, she had really meant only ten balls of yarn. Did we think she was going to make all of these into socks?!

Um…Yeah.

So, my mother and I picked out our favorite colors and wrote our names clearly and in bold print for good measure, and then stuffed them into a special bag. (This bag is the one she is to conquer first.) Gram looked at us and whines “this is senior abuse!” My mother prefers to term it as “vision casting.” I prefer to call it “cold feet awareness.”

(Excuse the photo; I only had my cell with me to take it.)