Sincere apologies for not blogging last night; our internet provider chose last night to take our internet away for six and a half hours of maintenance, which affected my insomniac brother and father much worse than it affected me. But, as a result, you're now forced to get two days' worth of activities mushed into one post -- and because I stayed up way too late reading a romance novel, I don't have the energy to give the events the attention they deserve.
Yesterday, I took my mother's car (which used to be my car -- the lovely silver Pontiac Sunfire that so many people suffered in during long trips to Tahoe, Coachella, etc., although I adored it) to Des Moines to write and run errands. My first errand will perhaps admit to too much of my latent dorkiness -- I met up with a guy who sells fountain pens and ink, and chatted with him about such issues for over an hour. I order ink from an online distributor, and when I placed my last order (two hard-to-find inks imported from Germany), I said that I would pick it up in Iowa because then I didn't have to pay for shipping. He runs the business out of his basement, so rather than go to his house, we met at the cafe at Borders West Des Moines (side note: for those of you who care about Borders, you'll be happy to know that despite continued sales declines, they secured financing for another couple of years, so they may survive yet). He brought the two inks with him (both of which are gorgeous and have catapulted into my top faves), as well as a sample of a special ink that one of my favorite ink companies (J Herbin, based in France) is releasing in honor of their 340th anniversary. He also had several pens with him, and I wrote with all of them -- and realized that there is a level of obsession well beyond mine, and that I am currently on the very normal end of the pen obsession spectrum. I could be convinced to veer closer to mania, though; the pens with the gold nibs were wonderful to write with, and he let me write with a vintage pen from the 1920s that put all my modern pens to shame.
Anyway, it was nice to meet him and chat with him about a subject that interests me but that I haven't gotten too deep into. After he left, I successfully wrote six or seven pages (with one of my new inks, naturally) before meeting up with Aunt Becky. We went to the mall and looked at shoes and swimsuits (I struck out on both, but I did pick up some stuff at Sephora), and then rendezvoused with Brian (the scandalous husband) and had dinner downtown at a restaurant called Centro. It proved to me beyond a doubt that Des Moines's culinary scene has expanded far beyond the Long John Silvers of my youth -- I had a dish of scallops served over polenta, and the polenta was mixed with goat cheese, artichokes, and pine nuts. It was absolutely perfect, easily rivaling similar meals in San Francisco, and I didn't have to brave any hipsters to get to it. Seeing Aunt Becky and Uncle Brian was nice, and happily I'll see them again on Sunday when we go to Uncle Mark's for Easter before I go to the airport.
I made it home last night after seeing only eight deer on the way home, got eight hours of sleep, and woke up this morning to spend some quality time with my mom. On a whim, we decided to go to Centerville (the next town over) so that I could get the battery in my watch replaced and she could pick up a few things. We took care of the watch at Walmart, had lunch at a pizza place, looked at shoes in the town's shoe stores (I struck out again -- unfortunately, as it's going to be 80+ degrees tomorrow and I didn't bring any sandals), and bought groceries. On the way home, we stopped at the cemetery and hung out with Gram Holder for a few minutes; my mother wanted to check the flowers on the stone, and I was quite happy to go along. For whatever reason, I find most cemeteries quite peaceful and oddly comforting, and I happen to like that one despite the number of people on my mother's side buried there. Maybe it's the wonderful stones in the older part of the cemetery, or the interesting names, or making up little stories in my head about who these people were and how they lived and died. Or maybe I'm just weird and morbid, and my interest in cemeteries and fountain pens is a sign of an incurable strangeness.
When we got home, I inadvertently slept for almost two hours, but I woke up in time for supper. Gram Wampler came out to eat with us, and I had a rather melancholy time fielding questions she should know the answers to. But, supper was delicious; my mother outdid herself, as usual, and we had a beef roast with excellent mashed potatoes and gravy. I could eat potatoes at every meal (good thing, since my mother makes them at almost every meal), and I never have roast beef in California (or gravy, for that matter), so it was all quite nice. Then, after Gram left, I watched an episode of "Criminal Minds" with my parents, then read a whole romance novel (Madeline Hunter's "Ravishing in Red") before deciding it was time for bed.
And now, after this absurdly long post, I really need to sleep. I have plans again tomorrow (shocking, I know) -- Hannah, my old friend from high school whom I've shamefully lost touch with over the years, recently moved back to the area to work as a naturalist for a state park in the next county east of us, and so I'm going over there to meet her for dinner and catch up. We're also something like fourth or fifth cousins, although that wasn't why we were friends (but our grandmothers did have the vaguest resemblance, both being very short women with white hair by the time we were born). So anyway, I want to get some writing done tomorrow before I go, which means I need to go to bed immediately. Goodnight!
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