Wall of Disappointment

My husband works for schizophrenic monkeys.  Monkeys with no ability to organize.  He likes his company, but working for wild primates has a lot of challenges.  For weeks and weeks he's been anticipating a business trip that gets scheduled with tickets purchased, then canceled, then scheduled and then canceled again.  I don't mind.  Flexibility is my middle name.  Now it looks as though the dates for his trip have actually been set--the project has been finished, tested, launched, and now it's time for The Trip.  But seems as though the Malicious Monkeys of Madness have conspired against me.  It wasn't enough to jerk P around.  Now they've spoiled my plans.

A local yarn store here in St Paul has organized an event for the Yarn Harlot's latest book tour.  I got to go to the last one and had a great time.  I enjoyed going with my sister in law Rachel and seeing all of the knitters.  I nearly cracked a rib laughing at Stephanie's talk.  I even got to stand in line and have her sign my copy of her first book, Yarn Harlot, though I learned that I am unavoidably awkward in public and that it's best if I don't go through the book signing line again.  She said some very nice things to me and I could only bumble out a half-coherent, probably impolite response.  I wonder if she gets used to people becoming star-struck whenever they get within five feet of her?  Meeting Salman Rushdie didn't faze me a bit, but Stephanie Pearl-McPhee?  Bumbling goon.  It's lucky for me that I hardly ever come into the presence of Greatness or I'd never be able to string words together again.

  

Just the same, I thought I could manage to go to the event and hear her speak without embarrassing myself too badly.  I had tickets.  I got them the weekend that The Yarnery announced the event.  I've been planning this for months, a night of laughter, yarn, and knitters.  I was even going to get a new book.  But then what happened?  The Inevitable.  The trip got scheduled for the night of the event.  All grandparents are booked.  The kids are too young to be left alone, despite my brother's helpful suggestion that I could always leave them in their rooms with newspaper on the floor and a box of Cherrios.  Drat.

I'm trying to be Brave and Grown-up about this.  I don't feel as though Christmas got canceled or like my birthday was forgotten, but it does rather feel like we decided to skip Mother's Day.  P feels badly about it, not that he is responsible for this or that there is anything he can do to change it.  

The only positive thing I can think is that perhaps there are a couple of knitters who didn't get to see Stephanie when she was last in town and that now they'll be able to go.  I did get to see her once and I'll still be able to buy a copy of the book, which I am certainly looking forward to reading.  And I'll be able to enjoy the book in bed, with a hot cup of tea, and no long lines of people.  I think I'll need it after a week on my own with the kids.  Bah-humbug.