After taking a soapmaking class last week, I put in an order with the teacher for what I need to make two more batches of soap as well as some shampoo (I’m getting so self-sufficient that soon I will be hewing my own wood and drawing my own water from the forest in our backyard. Somebody please stop me when I start making cookies out of tree bark). The teacher lives in another part of the Lower Mainland but comes to this area fairly often, so we agreed that the next time she was going to be over my way, she would bring me my order.
Tonight I got a call. She was just leaving her place and heading to my town. Could I meet her in half an hour at a certain gas station? Twenty minutes later, I ran out the door, yelling to my husband that I had to go meet my supplier in a gas station parking lot.
I really crack myself up sometimes. My kids, though, who are used to me doing strange things (like taking pictures of jam in the rain), didn’t bat an eye about the fact that I was (a) very excited about going to pick up soapmaking supplies and (b) pretending it was an illicit drug deal.