« The sticking point | Main | L'esprit d'ascenseur »


Nice kitty. Eat up.

Paul's relatives are visiting this weekend. Amid the tumult, I am getting immense enjoyment out of having a secret. Whenever the teenagers begin to bicker, for example, I tune out and run endless internal diagnostics. Uterus: busy. Fatigue: crushing. Correction: I tune out after muttering something about young whippersnappers — I forget exactly what.

I've peed on every stick in town, and that gorgeous pink line crops up every time.

I can't stop smiling. I am the cat's meow. The cat's whiskers. The cat's pajamas. In fact, I am the whole cat. The cat that swallowed the canary. And them's good eatin'.