A week of Saturdays

It was John Updike who wrote a novel, "A Month Of Sundays", which sat on my parents' shelves for years. And was I ever going to pick up a book with a title like that?

I don't know about you, but I always found the seventh day to be depressing, vexatious, and mostly cloudy.

Also it reached. It could spoil a late Saturday night, it anticipated dreadful school Monday. Dad-gone was in charge of the light evening meal: Hotdogs cooked on a coat hanger in the fireplace, and a vanilla malt. Well meaning, but then I was always a little green just as Mutual Of Omaha's Wild Kingdom was starting.

Then Walt Disney Presents ought to have always been good, but look, it was Sunday night and you were going to have to get up for school the next day. I must have hated school more than anyone. I hated Sundays well into my 40's.

Anyway, I wouldn't pick up "A Month Of Sundays", even though I knew it was about a minister struggling over an adulterous affair. That was too bad, because years later I thoroughly enjoyed Updike's Rabbit series. The Great Writer wasn't so bad after all.

A week of Saturdays: I mean that I am not working this week, except for two afternoons. The signs of instability may mirror a work spree. Too much hate then, now maybe too much love. Honking at man in wheelchair : ...neh, I can't think of the flipside for that. Except, I wrote a love letter to the woman I never mention here, whose comb I stole.

Work : Surf. About sums it up. And more meetings.

We have a new puppy. He belongs to K.B., who feeds and waters her, but Wendy-O visits us all whenever she's got a second. She races down the hall and scratches at doors. (It's funny, you just know who it is.) Open up and she jumps in your lap and wants to french. Strumpet.