- Abby Franquemont
- 20 Comments So far
Yesterday morning, while frantically attempting to locate coffee, figure out if I knew where all my spinning wheels were, what I was shoving in the truck when, and what time I’d manage to hit the road, I ran into Stephanie, who I think had probably had more coffee than me at that moment — I had just discovered that the only coffee that was left was decaf, which as we all know, is not in fact coffee at all. “I’m surprised SOAR doesn’t have a death rate!” she said, and several responses occurred to me. Slowly, though, given the aforementioned lack of adequate coffee. The first was “Are we sure it doesn’t? Did you check?” and the second was, “Man, I wish you hadn’t said that right before everyone starts driving home.” I might have actually even said one of those things, but I can’t be sure. I probably just whimpered something about coffee.
But, in any case, here I am at home now, not having become a major SOAR casualty. I say “major” because the sad truth is I’m a wreck. A mere husk of a human being. I’ve been trying to post a simple “I made it home!” post for the past 4 hours, and this is as far as I’ve gotten.
So, how was it? Well, it was, wow. The kind of event where you’re sitting in a chair spinning, and someone walks past you, and you say “Did you know you have a swatch stuck to your butt?” and she says “Yeah, it’s on purpose,” and the 12 people who overhear the conversation don’t so much as blink. The kind of event where you’re eating dinner with someone you just met who, in turn, mentions someone you haven’t met, and someone else at the table says “Which one is she?” and the first person says “The one with the real Orenburg,” and half the people at the table leap to their feet and say “Where is she? I gotta see that!”
And, you know. By “see” they mean “fondle.”
Or you could also describe it as the kind of scene where the drunks are nigh coming to blows, not about whose sports team is superior, but about whose worsted is more worsted… and when it comes to blows, it involves whipping out spindles and proving it. It’s the kind of place where everybody is covered in fuzz and fluff and you see people walking around wearing garments you’re pretty sure you saw on the cover of a magazine a few years ago… no, not garments made from the pattern, the garment from the photo. Where “Did you make that?” is arguably a stupid question, where you’re walking around spinning and people stop you not to ask what you’re doing, but rather, where did you get that spindle, and do they have more? How much was it? What? You’re kidding, he should raise his prices! It’s the kind of place where you see something priced for $250 an ounce and you think, “My god, what a steal!”
There’s a ton to say, and at some point when I am slightly more coherent, and the photos have been sorted, I’ll say it. But for now, I’ll leave it at “I’m back, I survived, and you guys should totally all go, even though it causes positively surreal fatigue and will probably leave you looking at your very full inbox and thinking of it like procesing a Shetland fleece with nothing but your hands.” For those of you waiting on replies, the inbox has been skirted and I’m separating the locks meticulously as we speak. Many, many, many thanks to my better half, who engaged in many epic and heroic feats over the past week. He’s the greatest ever.