Sunday is our Day of Slog

We did basically zero fun stuff today. I folded and put away about a gazillion pounds of this----while finishing up Joan of Arcadia Season 2 on DVD (Adam Rove, to think how much I loved you, and you are awful! An awful person!); I washed another gazillion pounds of this----while making beer bread savory muffins with dill and two cheeses with the baby----(along with the dinner I cooked out of cabbage, potato, onion and nutritional yeast, it was delicious--when I do have to cook, I tend to just throw cheese or veganaise or nutritional yeast at my food until it tastes good); and Matt, much more slowly than I think he needed to, built----the most awesomest bookshelves in the known universe:

Cause it's not how much stuff you have that's important, it's just having a place to put it.

Will, as seems inevitable based on how she's standing right at her father's feet and staring straight up at him while he drills heavy metal stuff to the wall, eventually got her face busted on a metal railing; it's been so long since a kid has busted her face at home that I think they both forgot that Momma gives out popsicles for face-busting (juice frozen into a mold--ices the wound, provides counter-pressure, and they think they're getting a treat so they stop screaming). Sydney walked around for the rest of the afternoon saying, "I got ouchie, too. I need 'sicle." I'm all, "Show me the blood, kid. Show me the blood."