Canned Goods

Scene: the bedroom. Ma's already in bed reading a borrowed copy of Diana Gabaldon's Dragonfly in Amber. Pa plops his book, Syntactic Theory, down on his pillow.

Ma: Oh, look honey...our book covers match.

Pa: Yeah, but yours is about fuck buddies traveling through time.

The above was from last night, before my husband came down with a nasty flu/virus whatever that took away any last shred of humor. Poor guy!

I suppose, though, he does have a point--that the book I'm reading is about fuck buddies traveling through time--but hey, we all need a brief distraction now and again, eh? How I ever got caught up in the world of historical fiction set in the Scottish Highlands is beyond me; but Gabaldon's prose is as intoxicating as listening to her speak in person. She--and her writing--is charming, intelligent and graceful.

It's late and my boys are asleep upstairs. Rain is streaming off of the roof's pitches and Moof is contentedly curled up on the other end of the sectional here in the den. I'm tired too but I think I'll put on some tea and cozy up to those time traveling fuck buddies!