...is a word I've loved since Eric Idle introduced it into my vocabulary while wearing rather fruity Renaissance garb.
I leave this little hothouse of literary leanings tomorrow just after the noon hour. This means I must contrive to pack up everything and get it into my car before and after the last workshop. Now, physically, this isn't really difficult, if I don't mind having tonight be a bare bones sort of thing, and I get up sufficiently early tomorrow.
I've lived almost strictly on Pop-tarts ('smores), potato chips, bananas, grapes, and Diet Pepsi this week. If it wasn't for all the walking I've been doing, I wouldn't fit into my car anymore. A combination of not knowing where anything is, not wanting to drive around in a lost haze FINDING where everything is, and pure disinclination to leave my cave creates my dietary dilemma. I made one foray to Wal-Mart and that was it. The workshop has kindly fed me two meals of REAL food -- the kind that's warm, and vari-colored, and contains nutrients -- so I'm not entirely bereft. However, I am longing to be home, where I can microwave to my heart's content, or The Husband will admonish me and bring me food.
I'm a cat. I love him because he feeds me.
Had my second conference today. Since the one story has already been beaten to the ground, we talked about the two short pieces I read last night. Very productive. I've much to think on. For now, though, I must pack a little, stick stuff in my car (without the Muscular Husband's help -- he is SOOO useful, a regular multi-purpose being) and get through this last day.