Here's where we're at: I'm waiting for my letter of either acceptance (YAY!) or denial (BOO) to the master's in nursing program at my alma mater (all hail the alma mater). Letters come out Monday, so it's a long nail-biter of a weekend to be gotten through, and I'm not even working to kill the time or anything.
In monkey news: Sophie can roll over, eat her feet and bite incredibly hard. She has one tooth in the precise middle of her lower jaw, a) making her look like she escaped from an Alabama penitentiary and b) reminding me that whatever I end up doing in the future, it must have orthodontic coverage. Please God.
Max has learned to clean his room! This would probably be more exciting if he then actually did so, but in the meantime, the fact that he KNOWS how can be used against him in all sorts of devious ways. Catholic guilt does not skip the generations.
I was terribly naughty yarn-wise and spent all the money I was planning on saving towards a tattoo on an online yarn sale. So, while I may go to my grave pasty and without tattoo coverage of the unfortunate cesarean scar, I will go with a huge pile of Mission Falls 1824. Yummmm.
Sebastian has located shop space for after our move, which, though it means I won't be able to use that as an excuse for an impromptu trip to Goodwill (and the, ahem, transfer station), does mean that he won't be so grumpy I need to think about selling him. For one thing, the resale market for husbands has definitely burst its bubble.
Carry on. I'll be over here, hyperventilating into a brown paper bag and contemplating why benzodiazepines aren't available over the counter. Really, it's a good question.
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