Yesterday I finished Louise Penny's Bury Your Dead and now I'm longing to go to Montreal. She's a sublime writer and I'm 70 pages deep into her latest book. If you haven't read her books yet, get cracking because you are missing out.
It's incredibly quiet around here, despite a steady influx of kids coming over. The only battery operated toy Team Testosterone received was a Lazer Tag set that's really not so loud. They're reading, building Legos, occasionally playing the Wii, but I haven't had to bust out my Mom Yell at all. Is this heaven? No, it's NOT having little kids--and man, do I love it.
Mr. D gave me a French oven for Christmas and I'm busy acquiring recipes for stovetop goodness. If you have any suggestions, I'm happy to take them.
I'm musing, at the fringe of my thoughts, on making a list of plans for 2012. I'm also steeped in disappointment that we're NOT living like the Jetsons, with individual jet packs zipping us all over the place. As a child I had such high hopes for 2012. I blame our dependency on fossil fuels for our unimaginative transportation. Though I am glad metallic skintight jumpsuits never caught on.
In other news, Mr. B and Mr. T claim to have seen a baby Ewok in the woods yesterday. A bear? Possibly. I don't think they were kidding because I grilled each of them in isolation and their story checked out... Consequently, they head into the woods more than ever now.