I am at my coffee shop and I'm supposed to be paying bills and writing the next installment in my unpublished serial about the little girl and her brother but instead was just reading Poets & Writers and feeling both hatred and worship for Jonathan Lethem. Okay, I could never hate him; I'm a little in love with him and I am jealous of him and I want to be him, except I'd never want to lose my mother at fourteen like he did. Or give up my current family. So when given the opportunity to change lives with him I guess I'll say no. Writing this, I feel like I'm about Iona's age, because she sometimes talks about how she wants to be sisters with Anya or Siri, then sweet-naturedly backpedals, reassuring me that she would still want me as a mother. She would have two mothers.
While I'm in the seven-year-old frame of mind I better get my butt into a blank Word file and write the next installment, in which I try out the idea that the free-spirited boy that has just walked into their life is an inventor. Of sorts. With mean, loserish parents who smoke. (And if any of my friends who enjoy the occasional cigarette are reading this, I love you even though you smoke. Says seven-year-old me.)
But before I leave this blog and my twelve (more likely eleven) readers, I will confess that I am addicted to the Sopranos. I just finished season three in which a certain douchebag relative of Tony's is murdered. The comical part of my addiction is that I forgot to put season four in my Netflix queue and so instead of more delightful mobsterness I'm getting two movies I don't want, and I have to wait an extra couple days for my fix.*
* Originally I typed 'goomba fix' but not sure if that's an offensive term. If you have an opinion please clue me in.