July 20th, 2007


(no subject)

Nothing really worth writing about. It's that time of the year when sane people stay inside and read, because there's fuck all on TV, and being outside can knock you loopy in short order. (Seriously -- I went out Wednesday night for groceries. It was 7:00 p.m., and the official bank clock temperature was 99 degrees.) My fascinating tales of doing laundry and nipping out for gallons of milk must, sadly, remain unrecorded.

Tomorrow is, of course, the last Pottersday ever. This means more hermitage, since the fuckers have gotten much to heavy to carry around. I hauled Goblet of Fire with me in a Toy Story lunch kit, attempting to read it while Mom looked for clothes at the mall, and ended up with a hurt shoulder.

I kind of miss her forcing me to drive her to B&N to get copies for Grant and Jordan "In case they run out," even though my own had just come in the mail (and she'd refused to pre-order hers from Amazon like a sensible person), and of course B&N wasn't going to run out. You can't buy that kind of dopey irony.

And of course she made me carry the books, because she was teeny.