If the temperature follows the patterns of the last week, it will be pretty warm later, warm enough to blow off heavy winter coats and go with thick sweatshirts outside.
Anders left for hockey practice this morning and then is headed to Denmark for a motorcycle show. Karin zoomed out the door to Jonatan's house at 9:30 (I'm sure his mom will be thrilled, heh heh). She's been nagging all week to go play at Jonatan's so as soon as I said yes this morning, she was out the door like a shot. Martin, like me, is on the computer. :D
I'm feeling pretty good about the results of my stress-filled week. Mom's brochure is done (although it needs an adjustment, but it will just have to wait because my work computer is packed in a box), and the AWC stuff is ALL done. The house needs cleaning, but when doesn't it? so I'm not stressing over that at the moment.
I'm all about the links today, yo:
Don't Myth Out: Godchecker
For Those of You With Baby Fever: Dooce tells it like it really is
A Hilarious Take on The Whole Gay Marriage Thing: Free my people!
I realized this morning that my spam has evolved (devolved?) almost entirely from porn to less eye-wincing fare. Mostly viagra and penis enlargment and miscellaneous unbeatable software offers. That's just fine with me. One that arrived this morning made me laugh out loud. The subject line read Turn your spud into a stud!
I'm reading The Girl Who Trod on a Loaf by Kathryn Davis. I can't decide if I like it or not. I like her writing, but the story doesn't seem to be moving along, after a promising start. This bit about music and Copenhagen was lovely, though:
Meanwhile the music persisted, as if a tower of notes were fiercely intent upon erecting itself, over and over again, deep inside of me. "Forget it," I said, but when I hunched my shoulders, testing the possibility that posture itself might be destiny, I felt a sharp pain—the pain of dislocation—traveling up my spine..."Go away," I said. Only the music was so beautiful—spires and peaks of unearthly beauty rising into a deep blue sky. The towers of Copenhagen, as Helle had described them to me: green towers and golden towers, towers flying flags and pennants, square towers and tapering towers, turrets and minarets and crenellations, towers twisted and sleek as a narwhal's tusk. All that was required now was one final bright point of sound, a needle-thin, endlessly ascending note, and the music, no matter how severe and uncompromising its source, would at last manage to pierce through the sky's membrane and into the house of heaven.
And now, since I think I've conclusively proven that everyone is writing better than me today, I'm outta here.