While I didn't celebrate National Drunken Writing Night last night, I can tell you that it is not always a bad idea to drink wine older than oneself. Or at least wine older than myself.
I am exhausted, and the pup is not helping. I will be so glad when her stitches come out Wednesday. The difference between letting her out in the yard and taking her out in the yard is a pretty big one. I know this from when we first had the fence, but still, it's frustrating for both/all of us.
It is sixty degrees here. Sixty! This is unreasonable. I live in Minnesota, and it is almost November. Sixty! Oh, the unfairness of the world.
Now that I have walnuts, I will make bars (some of which will get frozen so that they are still fresh later in the week), and I will make lasagna, and I will crash and read Issola. This is my grand plan: things in the oven, Issola. I have had more than one tempting invitation for the evening, all of which are probably going to go by the wayside. I will see how much resistance it takes to keep from working on a project I'm Not Working On. If lots, I'll probably throw some words at it out of sheer exhaustion. These things happen when one gets tired.