Packages in the mail. My true love received some ink for his fountain pens, and also an old Scheaffer pen and pencil set. He's a new addict for pens, it seems, while his wife has her books. We struck a deal (and I'm running behind, it appears), where for every pen he buys, I get to purchase a book. Seriously, I need more. Okay, so maybe I don't. That's the question.
And speaking of books, my Christmas present from said husband came today---the Julia Child cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking Vol. I. I remember as a child watching her show in b/w while my mom cooked dinner. I'd sit on the floor and just soak her up. My mom wasn't a fan, but I sure was. Still am. As to the book, I've not opened it yet. Saving it for Christmas morning.
Maybe going to the library tomorrow. Hoping to get a book or two to last me the Christmas weekend. J. F. Powers book called Wheat That Springeth Green is my current look-see. They have it at the main branch, and I figure I've earned an outing alone. I'm a bit overdone with talking to my family and being with people. And the dogs. I'm tired of them as well. Constantly in need. Pugs pretty much have bottom-less pits for stomachs. They'd eat all the time if we'd let them. Sort of piggish.
On the plus side, I went to the Mediterranean store for more Cardamom tea and the guy wished me a Merry Christmas. No, I don't look Middle Eastern, pretty much western European, if you have to ask. Dark hair, light eyes---we're not thinking of Iraq here. Made me happy he'd say that in his thick accent. All customers welcome, at least that's the impression they give.
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Now must chill. My mood is saying I'm a bit weary of talk, and most of the people I live with love to talk. I can feel myself getting antsy. If it wasn't raining, I'd go sit on the swing in the backyard. Might have to escape to the front porch for a spell. Must. Have. Silence.
