She babbles...

A bookish week. On Tuesday, I went downtown to a book signing by Neil Gaiman. I was in the same general space, I exchanged the same air molecules, but since it was teh crowded, I did not actually see Mr. Gaiman. I snatched the last chair in the Tattered Cover (the largest private bookshop in the US and a strong proponent of Not Giving Your Purchase Information to the U.S. Department of Justice). I was in some kind of annex, with lots of standing people jamming the doors, so that I could hear but not see. And hear I did, and was glad of it, because he's got a great delivery. I bought the new book, Anansi Boys, but then I was #359 for signing. #40 managed to creep through after too much time, and I realized Neil and I would be ushering in the dawn together at that rate, so I went home (after a quick peak at The Author). Work night and all. I'm not exactly into signatures as a hobby, and he wouldn't remember me 10 seconds after I came up with whatever witty comment I had in mind. I am a unique and special snowflake, just like a billion of the rest of you.

Wednesday, I was invited to a book club by a friend of mine. She and I share the same general midwest American background, our kids are best friends through sports, and she and her hubby are vocal liberals, as we are. This group seems a good fit for me - all women, all perimenopausal, and they couldn't remember what the hell they'd read so far, either. Memory lapses: the great social glue of women of a certain age. The book was "Kite Runner". They graced me by chosing my book for next month: Good Omens.

Thursday I bought a shitload of novels at work for 50 cents each. Oh, coals to Newcastle.

*cranks up my own music to compete with my son's hip-hop across the hall. He wins the internets, because he bought new speakers for his PC last week. Take some Franz Ferdinand that parthenia14 sent me!*

He's playing 4 soccer games a week. Hell, the pros don't even do that. Yesterday's game was a nail-biter: they lost in the second overtime. Red cards were seen. I've never actually watched someone get physical with a ref before. Yes, he was from our team. Testosterone burst from a 17 year old; boys are crazy. But the parents from the other team were the sort you read about in Newsweek articles: "Parents - the Bane of Youth Sports".

I called Parth and ravurian too, On the Telephone! this week, and got to hear their addictive accents in the bargain. They were in a noisy bar, and I was pre-lunch, but envious, I must admit. (Doesn't that sound like the beginnings of a joke? An Englishman, a Scottish woman, and an American on the other end of a cell phone walk into a bar....)

I don't know if you wanted this data dump. Indulge me. It's Friday night.

Better yet, for those of you who love Mary Renault, go join maryrenault.

Oh, yeah, who's going to get excited with me, because this week we spent thousand and thousands of dollars on a new roof? No one? Homeowning has its drawbacks. I could have gone to Europe with that money, but nooooo. You aren't even going to ask me the color, are you?