I'M NOT AN INTELLECTUAL, I JUST PLAY ONE ON TEE VEE

I've been utilizing our local libraries a lot lately, so my reading life has started to swing back into its pre-stitching groove.  Today my plan is to dive face first into Salman Rushdie's "Joseph Anton" and not come out until I've made a decent dent in it.

Of course, we all know that after about seven and a half minutes of using my tiny little itty bitty pea sized brain I will require a nap, followed by a vat of dietCoke to help get my wit about me once again.

When I was a kid I could read for hours and hours and hours on end, and I don't think there was anything that made me happier than devouring an entire novel in one sitting.  The joy!  The bliss!  The sheer sense of accomplishment of it all!  Oh, how I wish my stamina were that of the 12-year old me.

I'm still loving every moment of Laura J. Perin's Harvest Moon House, but I didn't put a single stitch into it last night.  Aunt Chrissy asked me to tag along to Bosco's annual vet visit (for moral support, of course), and then we headed to Carrabba's for a late dinner.  The plan walking in the door was to have a house salad with grilled chicken.  The result, however, involved a few gallons of Arnold Palmer, a caramelized onion/bacon flatbread appetizer, a loaf of bread, a salad, and then Pasta Weezie.  I. Ate. Every. Bite.  Delicious, yes, but I paid for it all night by having to endure the lovely waft of garlic that seemed to seep from my every pore.

The sun is shining and the Stewey is snoozing.  I'm going to do my very best today to get at least one or two Christmas things accomplished.  I am starting to think that those damn Christmas cards aren't going to jump out of their boxes and address themselves, nor are they going to drive to the post office for stamps, so it looks like I better get on the stick.  Sigh.

Happy Futzing Day, and Happy 12-12-12!