I have nothing of interest to report, not that I have in the past. Not that I'm ever writing to anyone besides myself. A journal, more than a blog, I guess.

So far the weekend has been a weekend of indulgences. Last night my husband and I watched the movie Ghostwriter and enjoyed it. Today, instead of wiping up my grotesquely gritty floors I read,and finished, Linger. In between chapters I slept, got food for my children, changed diapers, picked up toys, and...that's about it.

I finished the book, moments ago, and am full. Fully content, fully satisfied with the story, character and writing. Full with a familiar feeling of sadness at its completion, the finality of turning a novel's last lonely page. Full of aniticipation for the third novel that I'll have to wait until next summer to crack open and indulge in.

Dinner menu: teriyaki steak, potatoes, carrots %succesfulness: 75% (one child, having had no nap, conked out, midplay, on the living room floor before making it to the dinner table...this has never happened before. Dinner was delish. He really missed out, poor thing!

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