I suppose if I intend to go to the weblogger's meetup this month, I should actually blog. Anyway, I'd like to say I've been suffering from writer's block, but that implies a hindrance to a desire to write. I think what I've got is better termed writer's apathy. I really don't feel like I have anything to say. My life in America is boring and for the past few weeks I've embraced that destiny. (I've also watched a lot of TV--well, relatively speaking. I wonder what that indicates?)

Anyway, the title refers to my hands. At work we've printed a mess of fancy-schmancy Thanksgiving cards--a five paneled thing with a special die-cut to evoke autumn leaves. Anyway, everybody in the shop has been drafted to fold the flurshugginer things, so we can ship them off to the mailing company. Y'know, as a rich American, I've always assumed that machines handled all this drudge work. I guess you're never too old to learn about the real world.

Labels: life, work