Which sounds kinda gross, but isn’t. How about – ManCandy Rerun? Better?
Hot previously viewed semi-nekked sexiness behind the cut.
Which sounds kinda gross, but isn’t. How about – ManCandy Rerun? Better?
Hot previously viewed semi-nekked sexiness behind the cut.
It’s been a craptastic day!
I’m almost done with this chapter of Ribbons and hope to post it tonight or tomorrow. I was going to post mancandy when I finished however my laptop decided to vomit (i tried a new dvd burner system – uhm… no. It downloaded a shitload of crap on my computer and when I tried to take it off, it dug in like an angry cat. The next thing I know, I have audio spam even when I’m not online , both chrome and firefox refused to open, nothing was opening to be honest… I was planning on doing a factory reset, but a friend reminded me to do a recovery first. So I did that. Backdated it to 5 days ago. I had to reinstall Chrome, but otherwise, we’re good.
Either way, it’s been a 4 hour ordeal, house wasn’t finished, chapter isn’t finished and I need a shower and am irritable. And tired. And I have a snoring kitty on my bed!!!! I’ll edit the picture in as soon as it arrives.
my clothes are turned around – the extreme light-weight tops and obvious summer clothes are packed and my winter sweaters and such are out and hung up.
My closet bar is sagging in the middle. Yup. The thick metal rod is definitely lower in the middle than on the ends where it’s anchored into the wall. I’m thinking there is at least an inch and a half to two inch difference.
It took me a while to get my clothes exchanged because of this –
Apparently, they are comfy.
For the record, the heavy purple one he’s laying on was hand crocheted and gifted to me by a very dear friend.
Oh and KITTY SLIPPERS!!!!
Dey iz de kute!
My room is done and the kitchen is almost done. Waiting for the dishwasher to finish so I can put them away and finish washing the few pots in the sink. Tomorrow, I will tackle the living room and dining room and Monday, I will reset my cave, now that I’m not longer in it, messing and gomming.
Spawn is treating us to Japanese tonight and then we’ll spend time at Starbucks, going places that set my internet provider off. What have you done this fine Saturday???
About clothes. No selfies behind the cut, but I am talking about said clothing!
Let it be Guy Day!!!
I have a long 3 day weekend and then after next week’s short week, I have a full week off for Thanksgiving. My time will be spent cleaning house, decorating for Christmas and writing. Have a great weekend.
If you’ve not read the prologue and first 4 chapters, they can be found at Ao3 dot net, ffnet, and here. Go to November 2017.
I have not set days to update this. Just as I can.
When the Ribbons Dance
The days were now cold, the last of the harvest was in. The townspeople openly accepted Aelhaearn’s strange guest and seemed happy that Madoc was in residence. He spent many meals at the Druid’s, along with his brother, Meaurig. They spent many a late night, whispering in the low firelight but would stop whispering and change the subject when Bronwyn entered the room and sat down with them.
With the onset of winter, farmers were making sure food and wood were stocked for the coming cold months. Samhain had come and gone. Winter Solstice was on the horizon.
And Bronwyn knew what that meant. She prayed they didn’t ask her.
Meaurig clung to the cottage. Bronwyn thought he was staying near his brother but refused to acknowledge he was really staying near her. If Aelhaearn sent her into the town, Meaurig went with her. He carried things, suggested things, reminded her of things. Sometimes, when she returned, his hand pressed to the small of her back, she found things in the basket she didn’t buy – a sweet she liked, a jug of honeyed mead. Once there was a ribbon…she tucked it away, before Aelhaearn or Glenys saw. She didn’t know what to think.
She just knew her dreams of the man left her heated and in a sweat.
One cold evening, the group – family, as Bronwyn was inclined to think of them, sat around the table, close to the fire. They were eating a hearty stew that Glenys made earlier in the day and slow simmered. The food wasn’t as rich as Bronwyn was used to, but it was delicious and she developed a taste for it quickly. The priest, Iospeh, was sitting next to her. He had healed, but still moved slowly, either from age, cold weather in his joints, or his injuries at the hands, or the hooves, of Cewydd’s horse. Conversation meandered from the amount of the harvest, the size of the herds, and Hywel’s plans.
“I received a message from Dafydd,” Madoc was seemingly focused on his meal. The comment was back-handed, almost a whisper, that caught everyone’s attention just by the sheer lack of pretense of it.
There were various grunts and such around the table.
“Do not stop on my account,” Ioseph was reaching the bottom of his bowl and motioned to Glenys for a refill. “I have no love for Cristiant’s brats. Neither one is fit to rule a chamber pot, much less a kingdom.”
Bronwyn reached for Ioseph’s bowl and stood with her own. She headed towards the cookplace. “What did he say?” she asked innocently.
Madoc snorted. “According to the messenger, my brother wishes no ill will towards me, but strongly suggests I show myself at Aberffraw to swear my fealty to him as king. And then,” he waved his fork with mock authority, “he wants me to stay, so he can ‘protect’ me.”
“Protect you from what?” Ioseph scoffed.
“The question should be, protect him from who?”
“I think you will be more protected rejecting your half-brother’s so-called protection!”
Bronwyn slid the refilled bowl in front of the priest and sank down next to him. “What are you going to do?” She picked up her own eating utensil and proceeded to study her meal.
“You are not going!” Meaurig stabbed his eating knife into the table, causing Glenys and Ioseph to recoil. He jerked the knife from the pock-marked wood and pointed it at his brother. “The moment you are in Dafydd’s hands, your life is forfeit!”
“I’m not stupid, little brother!” Madoc retorted. “I told Dafydd’s messenger I would gladly swear fealty to the king and Dafydd was not the king!”
“I thought you said you weren’t stupid?”
Madoc was laughing. He stood up with his bowl and took it to the sideboard, where Glenys had a bucket of sudsy water. “Oh, Cewydd wasn’t happy, but he was alone-”
“He’ll be back for you and when he returns, he will bring Dafydd’s mercanaries!”
“True, that. I have no intention of being here when he arrives!” There was a carafe of Welsh wine atop of the fireplace mantle and Madoc took it down. Pouring himself a goblet, he set the carafe down on the table, taking his goblet with him, sipping from it. “Drink up,” he motioned to Ioseph. “It was a good crop!”
The priest took a sip. “You are correct. Very good crop!” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “Tastes like mine.” He cast an accusatory glance at Aelhaearn, before returning his nose to his chalice.
“I have no idea why you would think that,” Aelhaearn was quick to retort.
Bronwyn was quiet, listening in silence. “What are you going to do? As Meaurig said, Cewydd will be back and he’ll bring a company of knights!”
Madoc was serious into his goblet. He took a long drink before murmuring, “Cewydd’s messenger was not the only one I entertained this day.” The conversation around the table came to a halt. “I spoke to Grifri before dawn.”
Grifri?” Meaurig froze. “That’s-”
“Hywel’s messenger, to be sure.” Madoc was smiling. “Hywel is gathering an army of Irish and Norse mercenaries.”
“Hiberno-Norse?” Ioseph set his goblet down. “That is a fearsome group of fighting men to be sure.”
“To be sure, no doubt.” He leaned back in his seat, interlocking his fingers and cupping the back of his head. “I am leaving to return to my seat tonight. I will be calling up and gathering my knights and I will meet Hywel in Anglesey just after the Christ’s Mass.”
“I suppose,” Aelhaearn spoke softly, “Maelgwyn knows his half-brothers are meeting on his island?”
“Knows, supports, and will aid and abet!” Madoc cackled. “Grifri is heading to Cadifor’s hall, to see if Hywel’s foster brothers will join him.”
“See? To see?” Aelhaearn scoffed. “Of course, they’ll join him! They are as close to Hywel as Rhun was.”
“No doubt Cadifor will join in as well, despite his age.”
“Never,” Meaurig growled, “tell a Welshman he is too old to defend his country!”
The conversation moved on, talk of weapons, talk of England, talk of war. At times, it was spirited, at other times, quiet, soft, conspiratorial. They were making plans, drawing battle lines, all the men fully engrossed.
No one asked what Bronwyn thought and for that she was grateful. Because had they asked her, she would have burst into tears.
The following morning, Bronwyn went into town, not necessarily to buy anything, as she had nothing to trade, but to clear her mind, give herself something else to think about. Looking for a distraction. It was windy, so she grabbed the only thing she had to tie her hair back – the emerald ribbon Meaurig bought and hid in her basket a few days back.
That distraction showed itself at her elbow not so long after. One minute, she was rubbing a fine wool cloth between her fingers; the next she felt a tug on her hair. Her hand went to her ponytail, feeling her hair fall and she turned to see who pulled the braid. She was not surprised to see Meaurig standing behind her, ribbon in his hand.
“Ah. You did like it,” he smiled. “I wondered as I didn’t see you wear it.”
“I do like it.” She reached for it, only for him to hold it from her reach. “Please. It’s windy-”
“I rather like seeing your hair blowing about.” He handed it back, nonetheless.
Bronwyn rebraided and tied her hair back again, trying to figure out where this man was coming from. In many ways, he made her feel like a teenager again. It was a heady, bothersome feeling. His throat clearing brought her back to this ancient reality.
Meaurig’s face was schooled and masked. “I asked what purpose found you at the market on this day?”
“Window shopping,” she blurted, not thinking.
Meaurig furrowed his brow. “Window shopping?”
Bronwyn blushed and taking his arm, pulled him away from the vendor’s cart, immediately missing the feel of the finely spun wool from beneath her fingers.
“Uhm…” she maneuvered further into the thoroughfare, watching out for horses and carts. “window shopping. Just looking at… well… what’s out there.” She began to stroll down the dirt street. “I have no money, so all I can do is look.”
It was silent for some time between the two of them, surrounded by the sounds of the hawkers and fishwives. On occasion, one would point out something that looked interesting and other would respond. It was a strange sort of courtship, a getting to know each other. He was surprised at her knowledge of horseflesh and weaponry. She was shocked at his keen sense of music, of the gentler arts. He claimed to play the lute and for some reason, she believed him.
At some point, there was laughter at his dry wit and underhanded sense of humor. He had no love for Owain’s widow, nor her children. According to him, it was apparent that in their last years together, Owain had no love for Cristiant. As Bronwyn and many scholars suspected, he married her for her lands, adding onto the kingdom of Gwynedd.
They talked, neither realizing or caring they had left the village and were now wandering the countryside. Meaurig pointed out landmarks, historical – ancient to Bronwyn – sites, including sacred Druidic monoliths, cairnes. Archaic sign posts and way markers.
They wound their way down a hill, past plowed and brown fields, past the church, its vineyards and cemeteries. And to the back of Aelhaearn’s home. The sun was past its zenith and Bronwyn was surprised she had talked the day away with this man who tolerated her.
“Madoc has left for his estate,” Meaurig whispered. “to gather his men. He will stop at our mother’s to ask my father if he and his men will join us. I leave tonight to attend to my estate and then go by their estate and bring those who will come.” He came around in front of her and took both hands. “Please tell me we do not fight for naught.”
Bronwyn had a lump in her throat. To tell him anything could alter history, the future.
It might alter it in a positive way. Hywel would be forewarned, he would win, he would become king…
Then again, it might not. Cymru survived its bloody history, much like England had, France had, the United States had.
“You tell Madoc and all to fight as if their lives depend on it. It does. Fight with everything they have because if Dafydd wins, he will not be kind to his surviving brothers.”
Meaurig snorted. “Aye. He will be a son of Wales and murder all of his kin.” He scoured the countryside, looking at it as if it might be the last time he would see it, and truth be told, it might be the last time he saw it. “Promise me you will not go out alone.”
“Promise me,” his jaw stiffened, “promise me you will not venture out alone. Ever. Not even to go to the market. Always go with someone, during the day, preferably with Aelhaearn or one of the men left behind.” He looked to the sky, searching for something; an object, a thought, a person or thing. “Cynrig. Cynrig the Butcher.” He pointed behind the Druid’s cottage. A plum of smoke was rising above the trees. “He lives just beyond Aelhaearn and passes by as he goes into the village. I will tell him to check with Aelhaearn each morning. If you need to go to market, he or one of his sons will escort you.”
“Meaurig,” Bronwyn smiled, “I really think Cynrig has better thin-”
Before she could finish her sentence, his mouth descended, taking her breath. It wasn’t a battle of tongues, of lips; more like it was a question, a gentle request. There was nothing of the warrior in it, nothing harsh nor anger. When she would look back at it, she would think how different this kiss was from the fighter. At some point, he cupped her face, fingers splayed over her cheeks, drawing her in closer into his heat. Unaware she had grasped him by his tunic, she pulled him closer, pulled herself closer.
By the time he pulled back, neither one could breathe. His eyes turned a stormy dark grey as he took her in from head to toe, memorizing her features. He took a step back. “Pray for us.”
“Tell Aelhaearn to send you home.”
“No. I will wait for you.” It was out of her mouth without thinking and she didn’t regret it.
The rare, lopsided smile was rueful. “Ah, now that’s a nice thought.” One shoulder hitched. “Will I come back?”
“I don’t know. Truly. I don’t know.”
He seemed to ponder that before nodding. “I’ll come back for you and then we’ll discuss what I am to do with you.” With that, he turned and lopped down the path, disappearing around the corner.
The wind whipped up, snapping Bronwyn’s hair about her face. She reached back to retie it and realized That Man had taken her ribbon.
With Madoc and Meaurig gone to return their respective seats to gather up their knights and fighting men, Aelhaearn’s home was quiet and subdued. He tended to make small talk, spoke of herbs and healing tinctures. Efa joined him, both working side by side, filling chests and crates and small stoppered bottles with mixtures and remedies. Bronwyn watched, as did Glenys, both helping as they could. Often, Bronwyn pulled out her small notebook to take notes, write down ingredients, draw the plants, the recipe, trying to glean all the information she could from the old woman. Her friend back home, Ashley, quietly studied and taught the old ways for her Ancient Women of the World class, and Bronwyn knew this would be an education and a half for not only her friend, but her classes as well as her own private study.
Will I ever get to go home?
But as the days turned into weeks, Bronwyn thought less and less of home and more and more of Madoc and Meaurig.
Especially Meaurig. Ever since Madoc teased her about Meaurig’s feelings, he invaded her thoughts more and more, specifically in her dreams. They were becoming heated, wanton. Initially, Bronwyn chalked it up to the fact she hadn’t been touched since Royce left her; before that even. Looking back, she should have known he was having an affair. All the signs, the red flags, were up and there. Regardless, Meaurig was making her sweat and sweat in a good way.
Truth be told, for some weeks before Aelhaearn ‘calling’ her, she had been dreaming of a shadowy warrior, a tall, lean man, whose face was hidden in the shadows. His touch was heated and his kisses…
Bronwyn shrugged, not seeing that Aelhaearn was watching her closely. Meaurig was the opposite in physique and temperament to her ex-husband. Where Royce was blonde, Meaurig was dark haired, Royce features were regular and Meaurig’s were sharp and well defined. Royce was quick to laugh, whether at his own jokes or, more than likely, at the expense of someone else. Meaurig didn’t laugh. He didn’t joke. He was stoic and hard.
Despite the colder weather, Ceredigion was bustling with an unusual energy. All noticed it and it worried them. The owner of the alehouse whispered to Aelhaearn that his inn was full every night of the week, odd and uncommon for that time of the year. The stables were full with over-flow; men, Welsh bowmen, carrying weapons and staying to themselves. There was no socializing, all talk spoken in whispers. There was rumor of war, rumor of peace. Hywel was gathering an army; Dafydd was to bow down, Christina was retiring to a nunnery at the behest of her daughters, her boys were preparing for war.
Gossip, gossip everywhere.
“Ah, Robber of Graves,” Aelhaearn’s voice humorously broke into her thoughts, “you are deep in thought this eve.”
Bronwyn’s head jerked up, the glow from the fireplace casting shadows over her face. “I’m sorry?”
Aelhaearn’s knees creaked as he sat on the stool across from her. He had taken to leaning on a walking stick, whether from the cold or the obviously arthritis in his bones, who knew? “You have been very close-mouthed about Cymru’s future; our future. I fear it does not bode well for Cymru’s true king. You pale at the mention of it.” Bronwyn’s eyes fell. “Ah. I thought not. Please,” he leaned over and took Bronwyn’s hands in his, “tell me we do not fall to the Norman’s in my lifetime.”
Bronwyn’s smile was a sad on as she held on. “Cymru will not fall to England during your lifetime.” She saw the question in the old man’s eyes. “I lie to you not.”
“Hywel will die and Dafydd will be king.”
Bronwyn watched as Aelhaearn’s shoulders fell in defeat and grief. She leaned over and took his hand. The skin was thin, cool to the touch and she felt as if she held him any tighter, she would feel his pulse beneath her palm. “Tell me of Hywel. Everything you know. My time knows so little and… and…” her voice fell away.
She swallowed. “My time knows so very little. There isn’t much information.”
“And that is why you write so much in your book.” Aelhaearn continued for her. “So that when you return to your time, your people, you will tell your people of us.” He turned her loose and struggled to stand. “We are a study to you. Nothing more.”
“No!” Bronwyn stood up quickly and reached for him. “You are everything to me. Your people, your struggles, Mea-…” she stopped herself from finishing. She didn’t see Aelhaearn’s self-satisfied smirk. “I want to know. I need to understand.”
“Need. Such an interesting word.”
Aelhaearn turned towards her and looked up. In the last week, it was if the wise man shrunk in size and it broke Bronwyn’s heart. She didn’t think he wanted much less needed false hope. The archaeologist had been walking a tight-rope, biting her tongue for weeks, trying to school her face when the men talked of the upcoming battle that she already knew the sad outcome to. “Please. Tell me of Hywel.”
Aelhaearn made his way towards the shelf over the fire. He pushed things around, a gentle clinking of metal and brought down two finely wrought, jewel encrusted goblets. “My wife and I drank from these the day we were joined. They belonged to my mother, who was a great seer and prophetess. She foresaw the fall of Cymru.” He set them down and pulled a jug from a dark, hidden corner. “I am glad she did not live to see it and I thank the gods I will not live to see it either.” He poured honey mead from the jug. “This is not the priest’s. ‘Tis mine and a fine ale it is.” Filling both chalices, he pushed one towards her. “Drink.”
Bronwyn did so and decided the Druid was correct: it was a fine brew, one that slid down sweet and was heady. She realized after a swallow that she would have to be careful or this fine concoction would have her talking her host’s ear off and God only knew what secrets she would spill. “Tell me of Hywel,” she repeated softly.
And so he did. He spoke of a young prince, one beloved by those who knew him, save Cristiant and her sons, who viewed him as a usurper, as someone in the way, unworthy.
“Cristiant was hungry for her sons to inherit all the minute the first one was born, despite our olde laws,” Aelhaearn whispered. “She demands the ways of the Christian laws, regardless that the Christian Church not only does not recognize her marriage to Owain, but ex-communicated him for it. Her children are just as much bastards as the rest of Owain’s children!” He took a deep swallow of the dregs of his cup. “Long have the sons of Gwenydd fought each other over their inheritances. There are times I think perhaps the Christians are correct; give it all to one. But then I think again and fear it would be no help. Look at England,” He refilled his chalice. “They almost destroyed themselves over the whims of cousins.” He took yet another drink, his hand shaking. “Family is sacred. A brother should fight alongside his brother, not with him.” It was quiet for a moment while the old man drained his goblet and sighed. “Ah Rhun, none of this would be happening if you hadn’t died.”
“Are you sure of that? That Rhun would have held this off?”
It didn’t take long for the old man to answer. “Aye. None would stand against him.”
Bronwyn listened to his words linger in the air, rising with the smoky tendrils from the cauldron. The crackle and hiss of the fireplace, a noise she had come to appreciate. “Who killed Rhun?”
It was quiet for a while and Bronwyn feared the old man would not answer her, but eventually, he spoke, feeble and weak. “Cadwaladr,” Aelhaearn whispered. Deep in his cups and gone from the mentally, it was if his shell spoke. He turned his gaze on Bronwyn, fire reflected in eyes. “Aye, there is no proof, no eyewitness, no clue left behind, but as sure as my knees pain me, that bastard killed Gwynedd’s favored son. This fight would not be going on if he were still alive.” Quiet returned to the cottage while the two mused on their own inner thoughts.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Daffyd could easily go after Rhun as he is Hywel.”
Aelhaearn was shaking his head. “No. Rhun was loved. No one would have stood against him.” For many minutes, it was silent in the cabin. “Cadwallon,” Aelhaearn finally whispered. “Daffyd reminds me of Cadwallon.”
“Owain’s other brother?”
“Aye.” Aelhaearn allowed himself to laugh freely. “Other brother. Do you know how many brothers Owain had? We Welsh,” he raised a finger to make his point, “spread our seed far and wide!”
Cadwallon ap Gruffydd had been one of many of Owain’s brothers. As a young man, he killed the three rulers of Dyffryn Clwd, ending the rein of Edwin Teneingl and annexing the kingdom into Gruffydd. What was so horrific about these killings were these kings were brothers to his mother, making him the murderer of his uncles. A few years later, a surviving uncle, Einion ab Owain ab Edwin and a cousin, Cadwgan ap Grown ab Owain, instigated an ambush near Llangollen, which killed him. Cadwallon was not remembered well in history; a murderer for power, murderer for land. But mostly a murderer of family.
“I knew Cadwallon. Knew him as a child, as a young man. Greedy. Claimed glory in the name of his father, but I knew. Anyone around him knew; he was greedy. Greedy for everything anyone had. Mean. Cruel. Daffyd reminds me of him. More than anyone.”
Bronwyn raked her brain, trying to remember everything she knew of Cadwallon and everything she knew of Daffyd. “That is quite frightening.”
“Aye.” Again, the cottage became silent, save the sound of the flame in the hearth popping. “Madoc will survive, will he not?”
Bronwyn shrugged. “Madoc is legend. He is myth.”
The Druid’s face scrunched into a rare scowl. “I shall stop calling you Robber of Graves and name thee Mistress of Riddles.”
“Mistress of Riddles,” she snickered. “What’s it gots in its pockets, Precious,” she whispered to herself. She giggled at her own bad joke. “That’s better than Great Whore of England.”
Aelhaearn’s face shifted from a snarl to horrified. “Who said that?”
Bronwyn’s shoulder appeared to be in a constant state of spastic misalignment. “One of Meaurig’s bowmen.” She waved a hand. “Don’t ask me to name him; I can’t, it was dark, and it doesn’t matter.”
“’Tis not true!” Aelhaearn reached for the jug of wine and proceeded to refill both cups.
“I know that.”
“But-“ he pushed Bronwyn’s goblet towards her, keeping his in his fist.
“I know that. I know that.” She reached for the draught and took a sip. The berry was sweet, but Bronwyn was quickly losing her taste for it.
“Meaurig doesn’t believe you’re a whore.”
“Meaurig doesn’t believe I’m female!” she retorted.
“Oh,” the Druid whispered under his breath. “He knows you’re female.”
Bronwyn wasn’t listening and didn’t hear the old man’s muttering. “You knew Cadwallon? Aelhaearn! How old are you?”
He looked at her, the fire reflected in his eyes. “I can recall sixty eight Winter Solstices.” He nodded gently. “Aye, I feel it tonight. My mother was a wise woman and herbalist in the household of Queen Angharad, Owain’s mother. But,” his eyes twinkles, “you know about Queen Angharad.” Bronwyn nodded in the shadows. “He was a few years older than I, but my earliest memories were of my mother telling me to stay out of Cadwallon’s way. He was sneaky, mean, as a child. I’m sure had his mother known he would be responsible for the death of three of her brothers, kings in their own right, she would have smothered him at his birth. I know my mother would have drowned him like a litter of unwanted kittens had she known!” Both goblets and the bottle were now empty, and Bronwyn stood to dispose of them. “I got in his way once. I still have the scars across my back.” With that final pronouncement, Aelhaearn stood slowly and wandered off to his sleeping chamber, leaving Bronwyn to bank the fire and make her way to her own bed.
But it was some hours before she went to sleep.
Life has been crazy. Between classes from hell, grades for progress reports and Nanowrimo, things are just a tad crazy. So for your fix…
I”m super excited. I hope this doesn’t change. Today, we set a record for the high – 85!!! Folks! It’s flippin’ NOVEMBER!!!! However, this is coming down the pike…
And since today is voting day and yes, I did vote…
cross the line at your own risk.
I was so hoping it was Wednesday!!! But wait! I am voting this evening. Not ‘I HAVE to vote’ – it’s a privilege to vote, it really is, so when I get off, I’ll go pick up Spawn and he and I will do our civic duty to make sure the so-called ‘Blue Wave’ is nothing more than a blue puddle.
And that’s my political statement for the year.
And I’ll not be inundated with GO VOTE! ads all over my social media. According to news sources, a record number of people have voted early. Nice.
I was MIA yesterday for ManCandy and I’m probably going to be sparse for the rest of the month. Nanowrimo, Thanksgiving, house-cleaning. We have a 3 day weekend this weekend and Spawn and I are going to finish what wasn’t finished last weekend (which was pretty much nothing) because the FOLLOWING weekend, we’re decorating for Christmas!!!!
Ah Yes! This and next week and then Thanksgiving break. Looks like we’re going to actually get ALL 5 days off! SCORE!!!!
And while today is going to set a record for high temps – 85 – It’s going to get nippy this weekend (60’s) and next week, highs will be in the 50’s!!!!! YAY!!!!! Sweater Weather!!!!
It has been brought to my attention that there is a reading questionaire out and I should do it. No need to twist my arm!
Here. Have some Richard.
So as we know, Roamans is having a 50% off sale and I decided on 4 sweaters that even on sale, would be around 100.00 and I would be fine with that…
and then I got notice that they were adding an additional 30% off including clearance, so I added another…
And THEN I got a fullbeauty notice that they were doing the 50 off 100 OR 100 off 200…
I’m so screwed. 7 sweaters and a pair of animal bunny slippers for – including shipping and handling 131.00. I should be ashamed, but I’m not.
So My room is pretty done – need to vacuum and put away a few things… but I made the mistake of sitting down and checking my email.
So you know Roamans is having a 50% off sale – prices already slashed – on their sweaters and winter tunics and I want to keep it under 130.00.
Well their parent company just posted a half off – 50.00 off 100.00 and 100.00 off 200.00 and those 50% off prices are showing meaning I don’t really need to cull the herd.
I’m so screwed….
Oh yeah, yuk it up, buttercup!