On the Beauty of Birds Wearing Hats and Fuzzi Bunz.

Standing in the center of hundreds of seagulls, strong winds forcing those hovering near our heads closer yet, I felt like the still eye of the storm. It aroused a strange wonder even while I knew we were prime territory for whitewashing.

Afterwards, Millie asked where birds go to, and in the middle of my explanation of migration patterns, she said, "Oh! Some birds fly to Florida in a plane?" Her only previous knowledge of Florida is that our neighbor Kristen sometimes flies there in a plane. Hence, if Kristen flies south and some birds fly south, they must fly as seatmates. (If A then B is equal to C then B, then A + 2 = K.7 The logic is irrefutable.)
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I stopped at a thrift store for the first time in months and bought 2 wonderful and frivolous hats. In my small way, I work toward that culture Matt writes about. (Plus, while spring cleaning, I discovered that 1/2 of my vintage hats in storage are smushed beyond repair.) To mend this impulsive purchase, I bought a few pairs of designer jeans to sell. My profit will exceed my expense. Yes, I'm counting skinny bidders before they hatch, but all I need is to lure girls to my auctions whose waists are each the size of a carrot.
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Yesterday, I again began using cloth diapers with Annika. She wiggles inside three layers and two pins. Oh, Fuzzi Bunz! If only you weren't so shockingly expensive. (I know the name is ridiculous, but my cousin Leah vouches for their superiority, and she can even talk about them without breaking into giggles.) Nothing, though, (even F.B'z.) equals dozens of old-fashioned, cloth diapers, white and sun-dappled, hanging on the clothesline. I'm a diaper purist--none of this primary color, no pins needed, waterproof, stylish, and miraculously absorbant Fuzzi Bunz bosh for me, thanks.
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And now that I've dedicated a whole paragraph to the glory of diapers (what is wrong with me?), I admit that I have nothing to write today, for the benefit of any who've read thus far waiting for something of import.
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John finishes this semester in 1 week. Joy threatens to engulf!

My mind wouldn't rest last night. I tossed in bed until about 2 o'clock trying to decide, among other things, which class I would first like to audit when I'm 80--drawing, painting, sculpture, or a literature class. Any wisdom to offer? (Perhaps on the perils of drinking 12 oz. of cappuccino?)