I miss May baskets. I say this every year, but it's true every year. One of these years I'm going to come up with a grown-up version, but this is not that year.
I have started moving books out of markgritter's office a bit at a time, on the theory that a bit at a time will be better than having to do it all tonight at 10:30 when I'm already tired and just want to go to bed. I am daunted. For some reason I had forgotten that we would want to paint the interior of the walk-in closet in markgritter's office/the guest room, which means cleaning the stuff out of that as well, and while that particular straw hasn't done any breakage...this camel is staggering a bit. Tomorrow we will stink of paint. It won't take all that long to get through this, and then no rooms of our house will be yellow, and we will be glad. (We are mostly not yellow sorts of people.) In the meantime -- we are painting two of the three book-heaviest rooms in the house, and this gives me pause.
I am waiting on tenterhooks to hear that my cousin has gone into labor, or, ideally, has delivered a healthy baby and is herself doing beautifully and everybody is fine and will be skipping through fields of flowers just as soon as they wake up. I know people can't stay pregnant forever, but it sure feels like they do sometimes, and I'm not even the one with anybody dancing on my bladder.
It's sort of nice that my own book counts as escapism, at this point.