I haven't called, I haven't written. If I actually sent Christmas cards, I probably would have forgotten to send one to my blog, or I would have spelled her name wrong, I'm that bad of a blogger as of late.
There are reasons for these things; it isn't you, Blog, it's me.
And the fact that the neighbors figured out I was borrowing from their WiFi and locked it.
And then there was the issue of putting the finishing touches on what became a six-month flooring project (the last shoe molding and thresholds were installed this weekend! I'm all done!)
Thanks to Zack for letting me borrow his nail guns...makes things go so much quicker.I am back in the mode of being a storyteller. Sometimes I feel like I live stories so often I forget to live presently and as I am falling asleep I regret this.
I am able to go home for Christmas; I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to swing it but it looks like a go. My mother is once again on her Hanukkah kick and I have a strange feeling my sisters are getting behind it, even as I remind them that we aren't actually Jewish. We are Swedish. And Scotch-Irish. And Cherokee. I point this out and they act a little hurt that i stifle this. I'd say I don't like being the Scrooge but then I remember I've always been the Scrooge.
In Spanish, the word for party pooper is Aguafiesta: literally throwing the water on the party.
I believe there are some parties that probably need a little water thrown on them.
Speaking of parties, Saturday is the yearly swanky party at the Harmon House. I'm going to apologize in advance for whatever happens.
