Last night she woke every ten seconds or so to feed. This morning my darling husband and I are sullen, moving our slow thighs while all about reel shadows of indignant desert birds. Ah well; Peter the Rocket Scientist will be here soon, and we’ll head out to Foreign Cinema for steak.

I clocked up five chapters of my Nanowrimo novel yesterday. Jeremy tried to get into my pants by saying of one section: “That’s very Trollope.”


I had been planning to get up early and write before boy and child woke, a plan which now seems about as practical as flying to the moon on pure goodwill and cheer.

It was hot summer on Thursday, and then so cold on Friday that it snowed quite heavily in Marin. Various energetic throwings-out of unnecessary clothes have left me with almost nothing to wear in winter. Shannon called and I whimpered so piteously that by the time I got to her house, she had the thermostat cranked all the way up and hot coffee on the stove for me. Bless.

But before the ice age, on Wednesday, I was walking up Wiese Street as a teenage boy walked down it, shirtless, his cargo pants riding low on his hips, his belly all six-packed up like a Praxitelean bronze.

Mmm, you’re pretty, I thought, and he caught my eye and grinned at me and said: “You’re pretty.”

Woot! Mama’s still got it. (And I’m pretty sure that I was, in fact, old enough to be his mama.)

Leave a Reply

Comments are closed.