sixteen

oho, it's day sixteen. i have now, midway through this month, officially given up on nanowrimo. i know, i know--lame. but who chose november to be national novel writing month, anyway? there's way too much going on in november for it to be the ideal i-think-i'll-write-a-novel month. plus, there are only thirty days in it. at the very least, it should be a month with thirty-one days. like march. note, i am able to keep up with national blog posting month, which is much more my speed.

i am sewing, sewing, sewing, punctuated by occasional vocabulary-quiz-writing and the drinking of coffee and the making of vegetable pot pies and suchlike. the sewing machine seemed to be dying, and mark proved himself to be a fixer of sewing machines (i should not be surprised, considering what i've seen him do with a dishwasher and a furnace).

at night, i read furiously, so as to make a dent in that famous pile o' books. sometimes i leave the house, most often to go back to the library and pick up more books. sometimes i go to trader joe's (man behind me, last night at trader joe's: "i BEG your pardon for staring, but i want to eat dinner at YOUR house tonight." me: "oh..."  note: he was staring at my groceries, not at me).

often while i sew i watch things on hulu or netflix. i watched all the parks and recreation i could, and then i moved on to every movie made in the 1940s that is streaming on netflix. there was one called either the scar or the man who murdered himself or hollow triumph that was so ridiculous. it featured a man masquerading as another man who looked exactly like him except for a scar on his cheek. the man even had the identical german accent. which was especially odd, since the first man's brother did not have a german accent. i kept thinking, "wow, they made some really bad movies in the 1940s too."