We now return to our irregularly scheduled blogging—which finds PB in the Writing Armchair, fighting off a cold, examining plot details while thwarting the dog’s nightstick-like tail from knocking the Toshiba off her lap. Plus, there’s a husband in the mix, ironing his slacks, as bleary-eyed as PB since they stayed up into the wee hours of a TUESDAY yacking as though they hadn’t seen each other in years. They yacked about the husband’s writing. They yacked about her writing and then she yacked about her writing, caught herself, and yacked some more. They yacked about organic broccoli, wall stencils and remembering to breathe when bombarded by stress. They yack-touched upon Hemingway’s shock therapy, how to pronounce Fluke and whether or not dolphins sleep with one eye open. Yack, yack, yack.
And now all she wants to do is yack about Kony, but the husband is smoothing creases from slacks she can’t be trusted to iron and watching Superman to see if it’s preschooler appropriate (of COURSE it isn’t!). So PB sits and types and thwarts the tail, enjoying the late evening domestics, thrusting herself obnoxiously back into the first person as my son snoozes and the cats eat their crunchies and claw the ottoman and the wind, finally, dies down–but now all I can hear is Marlon Brando’s nasal voice and that’s when it’s really time to stop blogging and give up for the night with a wish for the safety of all children everywhere—vast wishing, the giving kind.