I have nothing on the needles. Nothing.

Last night, I went into the Yellow Room (its official designation in this household), and took quiet joy in sitting among my bins and bags of yarn, needles, and knitting books. I didn't take that to the level of opening the bins, and choosing a new project to begin. Neither have I put the pink cabled sweater I finished last week in water, in order to smooth out the minor blebs inevitable in a new, unblocked garment.

While I have done a bit around the house-- I've cooked every meal since arriving-- I haven't started on the multitude of phone calls necessary to getting the restaurant off the ground. Tom is running errands, by way of indulging my wish to remain motionless today. In response, I've dissasembled the Christmas turkey, thawed last night, and started the process of turkey-bone soup. So, I'm not being completely useless, just useless enough.