I Started That Book

This is going to be the slowest live-blogging experience ever. I'm on approximately page three. I would check for you, but that would involve opening up the book again, and I'm sorry, after three pages, I can't go back that fast.

By page three of Breaking Dawn, we've established that Bella (I assume it's Bella, no one's mentioned her name yet) is having trouble coming to terms with her engagement. She's been hiding out at home, going without necessities (like Pop Tarts), because when she ventures out, people stare at her so. She drives a really expensive car now, and it attracts a lot of attention. And she has a brand-new really high-limit credit card. And a really pretty engagement ring. They make her feel self-conscious.

I have two words for Bella: grocery delivery. If Peapod doesn't exist in Forks, Staples does. Heck, Pop Tarts are eligible for free delivery with Amazon Prime.

And three more words: Get over yourself.

There appear to be approximately infinity more pages.

My Previously Scheduled Inner Life

I have been feeling frustrated that I have less time to bake and knit than I would like. This is especially frustrating because I can recall finding time for these things even under extremely trying circumstances. I made danish around the end of the last accounting-firm busy season I worked, for example. I had a kid at home, I was working six days a week, and somehow I came up with time for danish. I do not know how.

This morning, I managed pizza dough. I tried to sign up Danger Lad! to help me with it, which wasn't entirely a success. He loves adding things with measuring spoons so much that I have to take the bowl away when we're done with each ingredient. He gurgled like a skeksie while stirring, and then announced that he preferred to stab the dough with the spoon. Somewhere in the process, most of a jar of yeast wound up on the floor.

This is not what I envisioned when we started, but the pizza dough came out fine. Clearly, I should embrace chaos in these projects. So no more danish yet, not even if danceboy brought home apricot-raspberry jam.