Nothing to report, Capt'n!

Spent most of today fighting with Robb (don't panic, resolution has been reached, and I think we're better off for it, it's just the couple of hours in the middle really sucked), reading Harry Potter, and dying my hair red. Naturally, I'm a not-blonde. You know, that fun, dishwater shade that isn't blonde, isn't grey, isn't brown? It's something like ash. I hate it. It's mousy and awful and I hate it. When I was born, my hair was bright red, like my biological father's. In times of stress, I go back to it. I'll remember to maintain it for about two years, then get bored with the fuss and ignore it until the ash grows back out to around my ears, and then I look mousy and tired and boring, and I can't take it anymore, and I go back to red.

I hope my hair goes either steel grey or crystal white. Either one will be fine with me, and I kind of look forward to it. Better than ash.

Anyway, in the midst of that, I knit another ten rows or so on Scheherazade (yes, Lynne, that's the shawl for the wedding), and turned the heel on Conwy. I haven't decided yet if Conwy or the Traveling sock will make the trip down to South Royalton. It'll depend on how I feel at 8am.

I have that shaky sense that comes from emotional release. My insides are quivery, but I know it's going to be good.

Peace.