To hell with the presents, to hell with the food, let me go home. Home, where it's quiet and there's a closet full of yarn, and a happy cat to pet (okay, okay, the cat's a bitch, but she's MY cat), and my own kitchen, and it's quiet, and where it's quiet.
I've had quite enough of people. Lovely visits with all of them, yes, but now I've seen them and it's time to go. All this company and good fellowship is making me eat cookies and fantasize about my house, you know, the one where it's quiet.
The Baby had a ranting, conniption fit today after trying to eat some Play-doh and having Dadad take it back out of her mouth. More than once.
My brother and his wife had a snarling match over the date cookies last night, but I made each of them their own bag, so they went off to opposite corners to eat them. While they were arguing over who got the red date cookies and who got the green, their son slipped in the room and made off with the entire bag of buckeyes. When I went over today, there were no buckeyes or date cookies left in the house.
I knew I should have made a double batch.
Now, I'm going to hide in the basement, reading a book and pretending to work on my Knitty article. Shhhh. Don't tell.