It's 64 degrees, and the house feels chilly. Pete is in the bedroom, humming "Amazing Grace" to the boy to settle him down. It wasn't my choice, and I don't know where it came from. Sue just went to bed, and I am ready myself once I get the word that it's safe to enter.
There's not much excitement about; there rarely is. The new co-op opened today, and it's nice, but I miss the old one. I managed to cook a real dinner, and then it burned while Finn was nursing. I went to a re-located craft store in Minneapolis and found almost all the Malabrigo in the world. And it was good. I started sorting though a month's worth of receipts from a colleague's trip to China; I have to submit his reimbursement. This is harder when the language is entirely unrecognizable. Beautiful, but complete nonsense to me.
I'm behind on the house, behind on the book, behind on the yard sale, behind at work. But I finished "Renegade" and "American Sphinx," and I am into "His Excellency" about George Washington. "Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince" was profoundly disappointing when compared to the book, and even fell flat in places when thought of only as a movie. I'm so tired that I feel like I am moving through warm water, but I am also used to it to some degree. I should floss, but I am just going to go to bed.
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