Today I painted a few more pieces of dollhouse furniture, unpacked my new paints for another project, tried grinding some on the inside of a gourd with a little tool, helped decide where the bulbs will be planted, and wrote the first sentence of the great American novel.
I have looked at the November writing project and just feel absolutely blank. It seems to me it would be cheaper to entertain myself writing what I like to read than buying it. It will certainly be inexpensive at the rate of one line every six decades. I don't think it will be very entertaining to me, though.
Helping decide where the bulbs will go was fairly entertaining. My husband said to show him where to till. He said he knew we'd already talked about it, but he wants me to stand there so he can explain what is wrong with it. I've already told him I didn't care where he put them as long as we can see them from the front porch. It gets tricky because they need full sun and that means we need to plant them in the field or somewhere we can't see them. Or we could take trees out. The removal of a few trees is the plan. He knows which trees, I don't. When he points, I forget as soon as he drops his arm. I think spray paint might work, but pointing is what is actually happening. Anyway, that was more fun than grinding the inside of a gourd because when I put the grinder inside the gourd, my hand blocked my view of where it needed to be cleaned.
So we went to the hardware store and looked at extenders, bought a couple of things to attach to his drill instead of my dremmel, and brought them home. Maybe tomorrow I will actually get something done.