death by wooden spoon

I’m in the book zone. The “oh, I have a computer?” zone. Blame two days without wireless access and constant companionship, plus a couple of 6 am flights and the Vacation Recovery Period. I’ve kicked the habit I guess. Or maybe just the addiction? I’m still here.

On the coffee table: The Complete Cartoons of the New Yorker
In the car (on tape, but of course): Eragon
Waiting for me in bed: The Historian
Waiting to be returned to the library: The Wonder Spot

I’ve got pictures, I’ve got stories, and I don’t seem to have enough time. Can I just say, though, that I love sleeping in my own bed. And sleeping in – something that didn’t really happen on vacation. Although I did sleep remarkably well at Lis’ – especially considering I spent most of the night in 1/3 of a queen bed, until I woke up and realized Lis was on the couch and it was just Toni and I, and why on earth was I sleeping in the middle as though the mustard in a sandwich?

Well, I slept well apart from the dream about trying to kill a cat. I was supposed to kill it – it was crucial. I’d pick it up by the scruff of its neck and it would scratch and claw and I’d throw it out the window, several floors up. It would sneak back into the house and I’d throw it out again. I got so frustrated that it wouldn’t die that I picked up a wooden spoon and whacked it on the head several times. It wouldn’t die. The End.