Pretty Much Ready

Getting there! I'm sitting in pigtails and wobble legs from the soilder boy dance. When it's included (hopefully) in my Christmas video, don't even laugh that it looks all simple. I'm not saying it's too tricky, but I am working along side a youngin' and it's routine to watch for what the rest of your crew is doing. No clue how it'll turn out. I of course want perfection, but can't kid myself, no pun intended. All I know is that MY routine is solid, but I'm confident he's going to fuck me up. I can't let him falter alone after all.

I have Mr. Morgan's football jersey and 'tuff gear for us both, will be a good time. I think. For all I know he'll get shy and just stand there as my dumb as does the soldier boy alone. If he's anything like me, which I used to believe he was, he'll own the show.

I imagine everyone is swamped, it's an odd time of rest in this house. Nothing left to wrap, laundry clean and kitchen dish free. Both humans washed, one Russian with a new haircut and a spotted creature slumbering silently.

The Mister is hit with a cold, but handling it well, while I retreat from his every advance. I am happy to bring anything he wants but I don't care to touch. He pouted this morning over being starved yet "too weak" to manage a meal. I cooked, for about an hour to meet his "but I'm SICK!" needful foods. That mopey husband countenace entered the kitchen like an orphan, and fed himself, lips smacking for two or three rounds of helpings. The dogs always get Sunday breakfast too, but never thank me since I'm not the one who served it to them. They yawn a ragged "who are you?" often.

Off for a few days of the festivities.

-DM