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electriclandcome hell or high water. At least, for a value of "week" that includes
"the coming weekend".
Entire family at the cottage this weekend -- my parents finishing up their
three weeks there, my aunt and uncle starting their two. On a practical
level, because my father went grocery shopping and my aunt brought up what
seemed like all the food in the house, this meant a ridiculously full
fridge. Getting anything into it was even more difficult than wiring those
stupid pot lights of mine. We dedicated an entire box that had once held
honeydew melons just to bread. We did eat very well, mind you. Now my
parents have come back to the city, bringing their share of the food with
them, so what was a pristine and minimalist fridge under my reign now
looks pretty much like the one up at the cottage. My dad does not believe
in buying small quantities of anything and is impossible to restrain by
normal methods; my mother and I occasionally gaze into the crisper drawer
saying things like "Why do we need eight red peppers?"
Anyway, it's lovely to have them back, of course, but... I've really kind
of enjoyed being on my own, and I would like to return to that state, and
the house is reasonably ready to move into, and I think it would be a good
idea if I just... did. So I'm gonna.
Weekend was good. Saturday the final pieces of the new dock arrived at
last. Sunday we had an onshore wind all day, which got a bit irritating,
although if we'd had the boats out it would've been great. I baked a
birthday cake and we went to a baby shower for one of my cousins. Monday
was gorgeous and sunny and calm, which meant Invasion of the Gin Palaces,
and we spent some time debating the best way to get rid of them. (That
sounds horrible and snobby, but having twenty big motor-cruisers moored in
front of your cottage, some of them literally twenty feet off your dock,
gets irritating. Not to mention the sea-doo that chugged very slowly past
all our cottages, inside the reeds, driver and passenger gazing at us with
interest. That is Rude. It's not like the lake doesn't remain ridiculously
shallow well offshore.) A potato gun, while tempting, would probably
invite some kind of firearms charge. I maintain that the best plan is to
train the seagulls to land on them.
The Queen in Winter improved steadily, and the last story (by Sarah
Monette) kicked ass. I read another small chunk of Ulysses. And
then my aunt lent me the new Jilly Cooper from the library, so that's what
I'm reading for the next little while. *glee*
"the coming weekend".
Entire family at the cottage this weekend -- my parents finishing up their
three weeks there, my aunt and uncle starting their two. On a practical
level, because my father went grocery shopping and my aunt brought up what
seemed like all the food in the house, this meant a ridiculously full
fridge. Getting anything into it was even more difficult than wiring those
stupid pot lights of mine. We dedicated an entire box that had once held
honeydew melons just to bread. We did eat very well, mind you. Now my
parents have come back to the city, bringing their share of the food with
them, so what was a pristine and minimalist fridge under my reign now
looks pretty much like the one up at the cottage. My dad does not believe
in buying small quantities of anything and is impossible to restrain by
normal methods; my mother and I occasionally gaze into the crisper drawer
saying things like "Why do we need eight red peppers?"
Anyway, it's lovely to have them back, of course, but... I've really kind
of enjoyed being on my own, and I would like to return to that state, and
the house is reasonably ready to move into, and I think it would be a good
idea if I just... did. So I'm gonna.
Weekend was good. Saturday the final pieces of the new dock arrived at
last. Sunday we had an onshore wind all day, which got a bit irritating,
although if we'd had the boats out it would've been great. I baked a
birthday cake and we went to a baby shower for one of my cousins. Monday
was gorgeous and sunny and calm, which meant Invasion of the Gin Palaces,
and we spent some time debating the best way to get rid of them. (That
sounds horrible and snobby, but having twenty big motor-cruisers moored in
front of your cottage, some of them literally twenty feet off your dock,
gets irritating. Not to mention the sea-doo that chugged very slowly past
all our cottages, inside the reeds, driver and passenger gazing at us with
interest. That is Rude. It's not like the lake doesn't remain ridiculously
shallow well offshore.) A potato gun, while tempting, would probably
invite some kind of firearms charge. I maintain that the best plan is to
train the seagulls to land on them.
The Queen in Winter improved steadily, and the last story (by Sarah
Monette) kicked ass. I read another small chunk of Ulysses. And
then my aunt lent me the new Jilly Cooper from the library, so that's what
I'm reading for the next little while. *glee*
