on the russian caravan of a cold wet saturday

A long walk with Lulu on paths following the South Platte River, stippled with stops to pull the evil burrs from prancing feet, followed by:

A toot around town, garage saling (no spectactular finds, alas) and finally tasting the homemade cinnamon rolls from Skelly's Inn, complete with sign rather insistently reading "This establishment is a smoking area in its entirety." It makes one feel as if one is not only disobeying the rules by not smoking, but is utterly unwelcome as a nonsmoker. Venturing into the entirely smoking Skelly's for even 10 minutes to await my donut's cinnamoning seems to triple the mental and physical exertion required to stop there. Something about the smoke's complete permeation of an establishment engaged to feed people boggles me. Nevertheless, the homemade baked goods receive high praise, and in this town of little-to-no-homemade-baked-goods and in-general-less-than-stellar eating opportunities, I felt I must give them a go. I had tried to get my hot little hands on a Skelly's cinnamon roll twice before, only to find them sold out (the most believable kind of high praise). I now know that the homemade donuts are better--less goo overdo. Anyway, this toot, followed by:

Endless tea drinking, a long-overdue return to reading, and possibly a little sewing. No cleanings or sortings or puttings-away, if possible. If possible. And let this be the end of my computering for the day.

Ciao.

. . .