It's eight-oh-nine, and my fingers fly like skittish birds,
in nervous dread that the "plunkity plunk" may wake one of the four.

Early to bed and all sound asleep-- a rare event that makes my mind spin with all the ways I could use this time. I have no words in me tonight worth scribbling, watercolor paper is buried, the book I'm presently reading spreads over a thousand pages, so even if I did read tonight, I'd have a span left to go, and packing....that can certainly wait. So I steal past the stacked boxes into the kitchen, where our next door neighbor's wireless signal spills through our walls. Snug between the cupboard and a child's chair, I crouch to satisfy the blog beast. (And to quell forthcoming criticism, I spent the day sorting through those boxes, and I threw bags plump with unecessaries in the thrift store pile.)

Here's a treat. John made supper last night (and tonight), giving me, as he does, a spontaneous break from kitchening. Last night's meal of all meals deserves a mention. Chicken breasts slowly oven-cooked, smothered in diced, fresh tomatoes, sauteed onion, hand-crumbled bacon, two melted cheeses, and secret spices (I'm guessing salt and pepper). Paired with corn on the cob, green beans, and his garlic-herb cheese bread. He does beat all.

Who squealed on me? I don't know how the word got out, but now even strangers in the laundromat are trying to trap me forever a dolphin. Yesterday, the kindest old man (or so I thought until) was drying his clothes next to our washers. Right before we left for home and the clothesline, he returned from the neighboring Big Lots with a bag of peanut butter cups. He ate one and offered me and the girls each one, which we accepted for courtesy's sake, and which we ate (for courtesy's sake). He then insisted on giving us the entire bag, with the flimsy excuse that "his ulcer isn't supposed to have sweets." Of course we accepted the bag, for courtesy's sake. We ate the candy, too, in case you're wondering, and none of them were poisoned. In fact, I'm munching the last one as I type, and I feel fit as a fiddle.

So soon? Susannah, that rounded sweetness I left on the living room floor, awakes and calls for momma. And you know what, I think this candy may lsa;ksjdfaeiwjf;dslkljseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeee(Susannah permitting, snapshots tomorrow)eeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee(croak).