3 Questions.

 

 I am working like a mad man on painting, sanding, staining, polyerthaning right now.  I have to drop off my load of crafts at Grandma's Holiday Craft Show in town

tomorrow.

"WHY are you on here blogging then?"

you ask.

Yes, I hear you,

all of you dear folk concerned about my ridiculous sleep schedule of late.

Because, considerate ones,

I do need to emerge from the darkness of the basement on occassion,

find a pathway out of the paintbrushes, paint cans, food wrappers and juice boxes,

stain rags, and assorted semi-painted saleables.

And if all this work doesn't reach completion as expected,  I do already have several boxes of completed crafts that just need to be itemized

somewhere in the attic.

Occassionally, I do need to find something new to eat,

feed my forlorn children who have waited entirely too long for their lunches

subsisting on fruit-roll-ups (home-made ones, thankfully),

popsicles (yes, it is frosty outside, but that doesn't stop my children from wanting popsicles;

does it stop yours?)

and hot chocolate (to warm their popsiclized insides when they are done

- sorry my Farmer.  Yes, another made up word.)

So I found the stairs to come up to real life again

and nearly entered the grave when I went in here

and saw this:

 Three questions:

 1.  Why does my daughter delight in using her brother's toys as weapons of heart-stopping fear

to her dear, hard-working mother.

2.  Is there a person alive who can actually claim making this type of thing for their job in life?

3. Where was my brain when I bought THIS thing for my son for his birthday?

I think I must have inhaled too many paint fumes prior to that shopping trip.

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