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miladygreyIt has been a hectic week.
Anders: You're back!
Aveline: You're back!
*two giant folders thump onto my desk*
Together WE MISSED YOU!
But I have been dedicated unto my tasks, and as of this morning, everything is caught up, forms are filled out, files are made and/or broken down, and I can see the surface of my desk. I am slightly smug.
We have been deliberately having quiet evenings at home, snuggling the cats (who are still kind of anxious that we might leave again at any moment. Hector yowled from the front windows while we weeded and trimmed hedges last weekend) and catching up on things like Glow and Luke Cage and Orioles baseball (although I'm not sure why we felt like catching up on Orioles baseball, this is not a good year). I am preparing my dad's birthday package, which includes a Guinness golf shirt and a book, and have already sent my brother's card and his Amazon gift card, since he is impossible to shop for even in Ireland. We are already talking about maybe braving the wilderness of holiday travel in order to see them and Z and Abs and my folks in Georgia this Christmas. I haven't seen my dad or any of the GA family in over a year, and haven't seen my mom since last December. And Yeats hasn't seen any of them in almost two years, and has been missing giving Abs scratchy uncle-beard kisses.
It is 13 days until Yeats' annual Manly Men weekend, and thus 13 days until I get a weekend of pink wine, BBC marathons, and uninterrupted leisure. I absolutely love Yeats, but after ten days of constant togetherness in Ireland and a busy autumn of book appearances and social gatherings approaching, I need a couple of days of solitude.
Reading Log: Devils Unto Dust by Emma Berquist; The Wolf by Leo Carew; Nil by Lynne Matson; The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel by Jennifer McQuiston; Before I Let Go by Marieke Nijkamp; Anger is a Gift by Mark Oshiro
Anders: You're back!
Aveline: You're back!
*two giant folders thump onto my desk*
Together WE MISSED YOU!
But I have been dedicated unto my tasks, and as of this morning, everything is caught up, forms are filled out, files are made and/or broken down, and I can see the surface of my desk. I am slightly smug.
We have been deliberately having quiet evenings at home, snuggling the cats (who are still kind of anxious that we might leave again at any moment. Hector yowled from the front windows while we weeded and trimmed hedges last weekend) and catching up on things like Glow and Luke Cage and Orioles baseball (although I'm not sure why we felt like catching up on Orioles baseball, this is not a good year). I am preparing my dad's birthday package, which includes a Guinness golf shirt and a book, and have already sent my brother's card and his Amazon gift card, since he is impossible to shop for even in Ireland. We are already talking about maybe braving the wilderness of holiday travel in order to see them and Z and Abs and my folks in Georgia this Christmas. I haven't seen my dad or any of the GA family in over a year, and haven't seen my mom since last December. And Yeats hasn't seen any of them in almost two years, and has been missing giving Abs scratchy uncle-beard kisses.
It is 13 days until Yeats' annual Manly Men weekend, and thus 13 days until I get a weekend of pink wine, BBC marathons, and uninterrupted leisure. I absolutely love Yeats, but after ten days of constant togetherness in Ireland and a busy autumn of book appearances and social gatherings approaching, I need a couple of days of solitude.
Reading Log: Devils Unto Dust by Emma Berquist; The Wolf by Leo Carew; Nil by Lynne Matson; The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel by Jennifer McQuiston; Before I Let Go by Marieke Nijkamp; Anger is a Gift by Mark Oshiro
