You don't have to tell me because I already know...

I'm terrible at this blogging thing. Awful. Totally undisciplined.

I'd love to blame it on someone or something other than myself -- It IS true that if I get trapped beneath one of my cats I have a terrible time disturbing them to come upstairs to the office to blog. And as they have to SIT on the keyboard in front of me every time I let them in the study, I find it is best to keep them out while I surf the net, check my email, pay the bills, etc. And as their little paws are wearing out the carpet below the door from sticking their little toesies under to gain my attention, I often give up and go downstairs and pay them all the attention they think they deserve.

So that is why I want the FlyFusion gizmo. That way I can stay trapped beneath silly kitties and still manage to blog from the comfort of my leather recliner-sofa in the den. Later I can upload it and post it -- and given the talents of this gizmo, that means I can also incorporate my doodlings. Sounds like fun, eh?

The hubby thinks he'll get to use it for making the never-ending lists of to do, to get done, to buy, to return, to be, or not to be. We'll see. It's not like using my Flyfusion (still unpurchased, but on the list of 'to buy') will keep him from making umpteen million lists on the umpteen million legal pads we have here there and elsewhere. Again, we'll see.

Okay, well the handymen should return any minute with an idea of how much it will cost to repair and replace the front door and storm door. Can't you see me jumping for joy? Can't you? And there he is -- but on the phone, not at the door. He gave me the figures -- let's just say ouch. Big ouch! Much bigger ouch than originally expected. We thought we were just going to get the storm door installed, but Nooooo... the doorframe is such that it requires purchasing a new front door as well. And then tearing out stuff and rebuilding stuff and costing a lot. How I dread telling the husband. But I dread even more the idea of continuing to live with a storm door nearly falling off and barely closing as we welcome 40-odd guests (40-odd being a representative number, not a descriptor of the kind of people we expect) for the office Christmas party.

I must go prepare myself for this conversation. Wish me luck folks; wish me luck.