So, this is what it comes down to. Half-n*ked children crawling around on the sofa, watching Kimba, while I try out the unfortunate-looking Yogatoes thoughtfully purchased for me by my mom during her recent convalescence chez moi. When you don't have food to keep you occupied, you resort to other, less sybaritic measures (though, I must say, these freaky things actually feel pretty good, like the bottoms of my feet and all my toes are getting a nice stretch. )(And yes, I know the Babe is too young to be watching television. In my defense I say three things: 1. I am sick as a dog. 2. She has an older brother. 3. We don't have cable, and they only watch carefully selected DVDs, sans commercials. So save your snide comments, if you have any. This is a considered, if still ill-advised choice.)Today I got dinged from a job, heard some bad news that may someday mean our being embroiled in a protracted unpleasantness, barfed some more (ok, to be fair, that was at three o'clock this morning, but it counts) --and then found out that, indeed, the sellers of the fair farm have signed our purchase agreement. Dear G-d I don't really believe in! What have we done?
1 comment:
What the hell does that mean? Signed the purchase agreement?
You are still throwing up?
Francesca said she'd love to talk to you about things to expect when moving from a city to the country. She has a lot to say on the topic.
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