yesterday as i sat on the floor, Used Dog deep in slumber close by, Little Olive upon my lap chewing her bone and me 'a pondering and a plotting' my next crafty move, the word 'intermingle' popped into my little brain.
where it came from i have no idea, i have never used nor thought of this spiffy word before. after several moments of thinking about nothing but this new and exotic word i decided it must be a sign. a sign from the thrifty gods. yes yes, with no doubt at all, they were sending me a sign.
i realized in this one word 'intermingle' was a whole message, the message being
"Tif, go forth to the thrift store and intermingle with other thrifty souls"
i protested a little, i know perhaps that sounds very unlike me, but we have reached the time of year when for two whole months my thrift store is taken over by halloween and the need for every man and his dog to find a costume of such. thus resulting in much loved shelves and rows, once filled with spiffy secondhand goodness, now filled with crappity crap mass produced wares.
however, 'intermingle' would not let me be, all through homework, all through dinner, all through whatever else i was 'all throughing' (Mr Spell Checker isn't happy) 'intermingle' kept on calling my name.
so i had no choice, i could not lie in bed listening to this word the secondhand gods had sent as a sign. this would have been a terrible faux pas, for the gods may chose to never bless me again with their thrifting good luck.
upon entering my thriftstore door, i turned to the left as is always my way and that was the moment Hubert and i found each other. on the shelves of knick knacks, right by the door, all else faded away except for a white bright light highlighting Hubert and his little fleabitten soul.
on close inspection Hubert has been knocked around a bit, he does not wear his 46 years well. i know his age, not because he told me, for alas Hubert has not spoken in many a long time, but because someone at some point decided to write it on his derriere, of course they could have been making it up, but i like to believe he is quite the old boy. i noted his crazed and craggy fur, i noted his terribly broken leg, still showing the scars of a badly patched job... but most of all, i noted his dignified look as i gazed into his little black eyes
when Hubert and i returned home to a dark and quiet shed, such is my life living with 'lads of three' who are out and about most evenings, i bathed him and then i found him a perfect little spot, one i had created only a few days before. i like to call them vignettes, my man has taken to calling them 'Tif's shrines' as in "ah, i see another shrine to your handcrafted and thrifty finds, has popped up whilst i turned my back". no matter. what matters is, i am thankful i was given a sign, so old Hubert can look forward to many happy days of 'intermingling' at mossy shed.
