Reading Railsea, by China Mieville.  It's a retelling of Moby Dick, sort of.  It's good.

Still rebuilding my bookmarks after the crash.  I've spent the last hour or so working on lace and spinning. 

We had all kinds of predictions of snow last night, and when I got up this morning there was a light dusting on the cars and a bit on the grass. The roads were completely clear. It is pretty cold out, as I found when I let the pups out. Somewhere around 33º.  Now, that may not seem cold to some, and it doesn't really sound cold to me, but it's a penetrating wet sort of cold that goes right to the bone.  I'll wear my heavy coat when I let them out tonight.  I'm afraid, too, that the roads are going to be icy tonight and tomorrow.

Taste of History on the TV right now, and I really like it. The chef who does the cooking does nothing but open hearth.  I covet his spider.  And I've decided that any house I buy (after I win the lottery) must have a walk in hearth with all the equipment for cooking built in, the swinging arms to put pots on, the grate, the beehive oven in the side.  Now I have to buy a lottery ticket.

Average week at work. No training or anything out of the ordinary.  I drove every day, lazy woman that I am, and didn't exercise a lick athough I've got the DVD player and exercise DVDs in my drawer.  Got to get off my butt.  My fat butt.

Monday night was A&S night, with Stanzi doing a workshop on sewing garb. She and Celeste cut out a pattern.  William and Arwen were there, William reading something and Arwen working on needlework. I brought my inkle loom and promptly pulled out my phone to play solitaire for the entire evening.  Well, I did talk to everyone, so the evening wasn't a total loss for me.

The rest of the week, I knitted in the evenings.  I've finished one sock and started another, in a lace pattern of my own devising. Nothing impressive, just a simple yo k2t pattern that creates a line of faggoting.