m,

Have you noticed our post titles each month now form a sidebar poem?

My strawberry-rhubarb jam turned out delicious, but decidedly un-jamlike. Which disappoints. It’s more like jam sauce. Lots of jars of jam sauce. J.Lo pointed out it could be used for sundaes and scones, and I could just eat it with a spoon, too. I’m seriously considering it.

I’m riding the wave, the Crazy wave. Cried briefly when stung by boiling water. (Because it was so insulting! more than anything.) Considered a thousand ways to ship away the children this afternoon, came up empty-handed. They’re quietly playing Play-Doh for the moment, but we all know it won’t last. And then it’s like every little problem ($, jobs, what to make for dinner at night, whether people really like me, whether I really like people, which life-path to choose, what *really* happens after we die, whether petitions are really effective/just part of the GAME, why I insist on checking Facebook even though it’s pointless, the need/lack of desire to exercise more, the fact that I’ve unsubscribed to half my junk email and still get like a thousand junk emails a day, and finally, my torn respect for Parvati’s craftiness on “Survivor” vs. my strong desire to see her voted out, pronto) culminates and pokes at me like a thousand tiny skewers against my uber-sensitive thin skin.

Also, I hate both books that I’m reading. I mean, I like them both. I just don’t want to read them anymore because they’re both too much work.

See, told you the quiet wouldn’t last.

I await a letter to

pen