that is her tragedy.

I haven't become my mother, of course. I'm too much like my father to become completely like her, for a start. :-) But I am nevertheless noting, lately, a particular satisfaction with having cleaned my place. You've all seen me talk about doing Sunday chores on a Thursday, a few times; today I have actually done Sunday chores on a Sunday, and I knew I'd feel better for having done them, and I do.

Errands are run, laundry is laundering, floors are swept (parenthetically: nothing fuzzy lives here, just me and my longish hair, and yet you'd be amazed at the dust-and-fuzz balls) and vacuumed and things what need scrubbing are scrubbed, and I will put the dishes away and fold the clean laundry and turn over the wet laundry and then I will bask.

My mom's not such a bad way to be. :-)

feh.

But what's not fun is when you run out of yarn this far from the end of the block you're on. (Side note: the large blocks in this afghan take forever.) I've got more, of course, because there's more to do in that color later. On a scale of one to ten, where one is a hangnail and ten is ... I don't know, a house fire, this is, like, point zero six, but still. Argh.

... timing is everything.

And of course while I'm whining about running (for the moment) out of yarn, the news is spreading that minotaurs died suddenly today. (More details here.) I'm terribly sorry for those of you who knew him and have been stunned by this loss (and very sorry as well that the timing of my previous post was so unfortunate as to seem to be trivializing it).