Work was ho-hum, ranging from the 'We'll buy our yarn here but go to Michaels to buy our needles' to the 'Just looking but I'll need to talk to you for 20 minutes anyway just in case I change my mind.'
I came home to a complaining husband. You may ask, Why was he complaining? And I would have to answer, Pick a topic, any topic.
Maybe he didn't appreciate having to cook dinner on Father's Day, even though he had nothing to complain about regarding the meal. He actually said, "Well, that was a fine feed!"
I almost fainted with surprise. He actually praised a meal.
I guess I'm complaining now, sorta kinda.
I walked around Steveston Market this afternoon, and was surprised to see a Food Truck there selling - yes, you guessed it (maybe) - Poutine. And they offered a bacon topping. I did walk past it, but I was sorely tempted, and may not be able to pass by in two weeks time when they come back. You could also buy wood-fired-oven Pizza, or sausages on buns, plus the usual chocolate, baked goods, Kettle Corn, and - get this - Local Strawberries. Now, I didn't think the strawberries were ripe enough for picking yet, let alone selling at any market. I would probably think these strawberries had a little border crossing trip to get to Steveston this morning and should have probably been labeled as Immigrant Strawberries. But then again, I could be wrong. (Yes, it is possible.) If I had to sell my little strawberries now, I would have to advertise them as albino preemies.
I read that people who read blogs like lots of pictures - is that true? If so, I must start taking more pics. They would help, too, when I run out of words ... like now, for instance ....
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