You're not the boss of me

I can eat apple crisp for dinner if I want to.

Hubs said he's make stirfry, but he hasn't yet. I'm hungry. I'm sick. Cooking takes a long time, peeling some apples and tossing on some sugar and oatmeal does not.

Don't look at me that way. I'm a grown up person; I can do what I want.

You're not my mom.

In the top left corner of the artfully rendered 'dinner' pic, we have the dish in question. Clockwise from it we see: the Vogue Knitting mag wherein the pattern for my new sweater (and my next project, as well!) is found, my Christmas-new copy of Angela's Ashes, by Frank McCourt (Oh my stars, this book is the easiest read of all time! It's like listening to an intensely interesting man tell the sordid tale of his life in the most amusing and pleasing way possible!), my retractible measuring tape, and my little knitting odds-and-ends bag. It holds my dpns, my cable needles, my scissors, my measuring tape (when it's not sitting on the coffee table) and my circs, as they tend to shimmy their way to the bottom of my knitting bucket, box, thing. Then I have to dig them out from under my stash of random ends. Quite the pain. So they live in the bag. Which originally came full of Crest Whitestrips! It's clear on the sides, and it zips. Fab.

Oh, Wembley, so sweet. She was all snuggled up with Papa Bear one night in bed. Papa Bear was a gift from my grandfather, Papa, when I was only a few days old. He was especially chosen after Papa had first met me. He bought one for each of the grandkids as we arrived. He had quite the time finding one for my sister, until he realised, she didn't need a bear! She needed a mouse!

Miss you Papa. I love you lots.