The strain of it all


I was going to blog last week, but what with my mother cooking for me, my sister doing the laundry, and my brother-in-law making margaritas, I really couldn’t find the time.

I took a few books to our Palm Springs pool deck instead. I finished Brian Brett’sTrauma Farm, which I’d been struggling with for weeks. All of a sudden, in the California desert, I found the book intriguingly exotic. (It’s possible you shouldn’t read rainforest books while being dripped on by the rainforest winter.) The same goes for Charlotte Gill’s Eating Dirt, which I’m half-finished and loving. In between, I pre-read the first book in Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, to make sure it wasn’t going to scare the pants off my daughter, and I read Christopher Paolini’s Eragon… just because I’ve always wanted to.

Now I’m back, work is calling, the reading is set aside, and… wait a second… where’s my margarita??

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