...as much as I raise hell, at my current life state.
The in-laws arrived last night. We were up until one, chatting and carrying on. They're fine this morning. I feel like death. I'm blaming the germs; I woke up this morning with a sore throat and a nose fulla goo. It's also possible I'm old. (It isn't the years; it's the mileage.) Today we're going to late lunch, shopping, and home for pot roast. I'm tired just thinking of it, but one of the shopping stops involves a book store so I'm going anyway.
Ordered some yarn for a sample for the Twist Collective proposal. If I pull off what I'm plotting, one way or another it will be available for sale. And I think I can adapt it from a half-round to an oblong. I think. We'll see.
My mother-in-law has spent the last half hour trying to teach the Goob to play 'Go Fish'. I'm not religious enough to consider sainthood, so, what... a medal? Some good chocolate? A hug? The woman deserves SOME award for patience. Possibly worship.
Yesterday I knocked out two dozen perogis. Out of curiosity, I timed myself. Two dozen perogis in half an hour. Apparently, once you make fifty or sixty dozen of the little suckers, the mojo parks in your soul, never to leave. Last time I made these was before the Goob was born, and there I was yesterday, just whacking them out like nothing.
Unfortunately I lost my recipe for the dough and found another I thought was close enough on line. Wrong. There is serious structural integrity problems with the new dough; last night I was boiling some and one EXPLODED.
Bah. Two dozen perogis, and they're crappy.
Anyway, I gotta go put a seven pound pot roast in the oven and go book shopping. This would be a load of fun if I could breathe out my nose.