Trying to readjust to life beyond the holidays was a challenge today. I got very little done. It was bitter cold.
Mike was grumpy.
I was grumpy.
Lola destroyed several paper plates she had dug out of the trash and managed to eat a bunch of crackers she pulled off the dining room table. Michael and I were gone to the bookstore and she was restless...
I retreated asap when we got home. I managed to finish Winter of the World. I didn't like it as well as Fall of Giants, but I had to read it. It's like a miniseries that you cannot stop yourself from watching. The good thing about reading is that it distracts one from life. The bad thing is that it distracts one from life.
If I am into a really juicy book, inevitably my house isn't clean enough. The meals I cook lean toward hot dogs and away from Julia Child. The dog walking isn't as long.
Books can be all-consuming.
I am intrigued with a new movie called Philomena. Love Judi Dench. Like Steve Coogan. The subject matter strikes me as horribly painful, though, a birthmom whose child is ripped away from her, and 50 years later she searches for him. That sort of thing happened. It's undeniable. I fear I would blubber like a baby in the theater, though.
Like my mother, I don't really want to cry in public. I don't cry pretty.
I will see it, eventually.
Michael is babysitting in the morning, so I will sign off. More tomorrow.
