Today I needed to make Elizabeth’s birthday dessert (she chose yellow cupcakes with strawberry frosting) (I love that “yellow” is an actual flavor of cake), so it seemed like the perfect moment to stop being shy with the new mixer.

I wouldn’t say I was sorry to see the old mixer go…but I’ve had it a lonnnnng time, so it’s a little poignant. My first husband and I bought it with money we got for our wedding, so that makes it about 17 years old. Please don’t say, “Oh, I was in third grade when you bought your mixer!” No, it’s not any better if it’s fourth grade. Really, that sort of remark never works out well.

After that marriage ended and I graduated from college, I got a job in a bakery, working with the big mixers the countertop ones are smaller versions of. Part of the reason I got that job is that I knew how to use a Kitchenaid mixer: the big ones are the same, you just have to put your arms all the way around the bowl to get it off the stand, and then lift with your legs. I’ve never quite understood how to make “lift with your legs” work, so I always had an ouchie back with that job. Also, I picked up some habits that work well in a bakery but not so well at home, such as just FLINGING flour across a counter to evenly flour it before working with dough. (Bakery: There’s flour all over the place anyway, and someone else comes in after to clean the floors. Home: Tag, you’re it.)

When Edward was about three years old, he was climbing on the counter (NOT ALLOWED) and started to fall. He grabbed the mixer to steady himself, and he and the mixer both went down. We were very lucky they fell in different directions. The noise the mixer made when it hit the floor, combined with Edward’s shrieks (which turned out to be panic rather than pain) had me re-evaluating what a “good outcome” was.

Edward was just shaken and scared, but the mixer hasn’t been right since then. The back of it has to be held on with duct tape, and it’s still very loud and vibratey unless you put pressure on the wound. The beater doesn’t quite line up with the bowl anymore, so there are missed spots and scraped spots. And the knob that lets you change speeds got bent straight down; in order to change speeds, you have to sort of TWIST it as you move it—and it can slip suddenly. Going from speed 1 to speed 8 all at once is…not good for most things you might have in a mixer.

Paul and I agreed it needed to be replaced, but it still worked okay so there was no rush. I couldn’t decide on a color. Pink was my long-standing favorite.

(photo from Amazon.com)

But over the years the attitudes of some other women toward the color pink had made me feel self-conscious about liking it. It’s rare to hear someone express dislike of, say, green, in the spit-on-the-floor way they might express dislike of pink. And that made me second-guess my like of it, which then made me mad because the whole “girls have to like a certain color because other people say so” is exactly the kind of principle the hate-pinkers are generally AGAINST. And also, mad because spitting on what other people like is mean, and pointless, and poor for the development of one’s character. And also because, what about Ice?

(photo from Amazon.com)

And what about Green Apple? I LOVE green. I SAY pink is my favorite color, but when I’m choosing stuff I more often choose green.

(photo from Amazon.com)

And what about Buttercup? I love that shade of yellow.

(photo from Amazon.com)

But then pink went on one of those one-hour deals, for the best price I’ve ever seen it (and I’ve been watching it for YEARS). That made the decision for me, and I bought it. (I’m glad I didn’t realize that Ice was going on the same deal an hour later.)

So here is my old mixer, with its subtle and barely-visible duct tape repair:

And here is my new:

I’m second-guessing it, of course (maybe I should have gotten the green! no, the yellow! no, the green! no, the blue! no, the green!), but it’s good to have the decision made (and the cupcakes too).

As you have already seen if you follow me on Twitter, Paul and I had a huge fight about whether .333… = 1/3. (Why WOULDN’T you follow me on Twitter, when it can keep you UP TO THE MINUTE on such things?) This was a fight in which my concluding argument was to break a laundry basket.

I just…you know? You live for 16 years with another person and there are certain arguments that turn it up to eleven just like THAT. For some couples it’s money, or unwise extramarital flirting, or what kind of Christmas tree is “right.” Until now, I thought the only such fight topic Paul and I had was the Monty Hall problem. We CANNOT DISCUSS IT.

But what I hadn’t realized is that the Monty Hall problem was only an EXAMPLE of the real, ROOT issue in our marriage, which is “Theoretical Math” vs. “Actual Reality.” And when he tried to apply Theoretical Math to Actual Reality in the .333… vs. 1/3 thing, and then stood there asking calmly if I wanted him to show me the references that backed him up…well, that’s when it was clear to me that the only form of self-expression that would accurately represent my reply to that question was to smash something UP.

We can talk ALL DAY LONG about how IN A MATH PROBLEM you sometimes have to use .333… to represent 1/3rd, and that it’s the closest decimal equivalent of 1/3rd, and I will AGREE with that all throughout that same long day—just as I will agree that, with rounding, .345 is 35%. But if you say it IS THE SAME—well, we are going to lose a laundry basket in this argument.

May I demonstrate briefly? First, remember that putting “…” after a number means “into infinity”—and so, “.333…” is a short and convenient way to express a decimal point followed by a line of 3s that goes on FOREVER. And now, my point: .333… plus .333… plus .333… is .999… . Whereas 1/3 plus 1/3 plus 1/3 is 1. DIFFERENT. As Shriekhouse said, “.333… is infinite. 1/3 is finite. That’s about as big a difference as you can get!” Exactly. For the problem in question, we were finding out information about a group of 12 having lunch, and 4 had tuna sandwiches. Is 1/3 (4 people) the SAME as .333… (3.999… people)? No. Close? Yes. Close enough for many math problems? Yes. SAME? NOT UNLESS WE CARVE A LITTLE SLICE OFF THAT FOURTH PERSON.

For another demonstration, imagine this problem on a math test, and two students answering the question in these two ways:

Which student is THEORETICALLY right (and about to get a note from the teacher to stop smartypantsing around and just give the right answer), and which student is ACTUALLY right?

Not following this? NO MATTER. The takeaway here is that SWISTLE IS RIGHT AND PAUL IS WRONG. And that if Math agrees with Paul, then MATH IS ALSO WRONG, and you may think I am kidding but I AM NOT. Giving “being backed into a theoretical corner” precedence over “reality” is “ridiculous,” and I don’t really care if a whole bunch of Smarty McSmartypants say it isn’t. EINSTEIN HIMSELF could arrive at my house bearing “references,” and I would break a laundry basket for HIM, too. I will DIE ON THIS HILL, even if ALL OF MATH wants to fight on the other side of the battle.

Antiangie wondered “Do you ever wonder if people who aren’t married to scientist/engineer/computer types have this type of ‘discussion’?” Which brings up an interesting conversation topic.

My last boyfriend (aka my first husband) and I had our two hugest recurring fights over (1) applied pacifism and (2) thank-you notes. As in, those were the fights horrible and passionate enough that they could have ended our relationship. And my high school boyfriend and I had near-relationship-ending fights over (1) how he spoke to his co-workers at the fast-food restaurant where he was a shift manager and (2) the logical likelihood of get-rich-quick schemes working.

I do hope you will tell me the seemingly-silly-to-an-outsider NUCLEAR HOT BUTTON issues in your current/past relationships (it doesn’t have to be a romantic relationship, because family relationships can be JUST AS KRAZY), while I find all the shards of that laundry basket (those suckers SCATTER, man).

Our last female adult platy fish died last night, and now the male platy that always swam around with her is hiding almost motionless in the low plants. He always seemed a little dim even for a fish; I think maybe he doesn’t know how to swim around unless he’s following someone else.

Also, I am trying not to anthropomorphize this situation and make him a grieving widower, but it’s a little trickier than it would usually be because he ONLY followed her: that is, the other male would follow ANY female platy and didn’t seem to know the difference, but this one ONLY followed this particular female platy. Normally I would be thinking “Do I get a new female platy, or do I just continue the slow natural discontinuation of the fish project?”—but I’m not sure getting a new female platy would even help. Isn’t that…sadder than you’d expect?

********

On a school memo to parents: “Volunteers: Please leave younger siblings at home. THANKS!!” Oh, okay, I will just leave a younger-than-a-kindergartner sibling at home, alone or with the other stay-at-home parent because it makes sense there would be two of us home during the day!

I think it’s reasonable to ask volunteers not to bring children. But that should have been made clear BEFORE signing up the volunteers: I saw the memo asking for volunteers and it didn’t mention siblings. Also, that is an obnoxious/unrealistic way to phrase the post-sign-up request. “Leave them at home”?

********

A dog pooped on our lawn, and notice how carefully I have edited that from its original version, which was “Someone let their dog poop on our lawn.” Not only is the original version dissatisfying for its singular subject with plural pronoun, but it’s also aggressively accusatory and could be completely unfair. I was so upset about the nearly-unfaceable task of having to clean up that poop (despite being fine with diapers, cat box, other people’s kids’ diapers), I had to use my Coping Thoughts to come up with situations in which it was not as big of an outrage as I was imagining (I use the same technique in mannnnnny situations). I came up with several:

1. This was a dog that got out of its yard unexpectedly. The owners had no idea it pooped on our lawn, and would be mortified if they knew.

2. The owner was walking the dog and stood talking to another walker while standing in front of our house. So intense was the conversation, neither of them noticed the dog. Later, the owner wondered why the dog hadn’t Succeeded on this walk, and spent part of the evening fretting about it and hoping there wouldn’t be an Accident later on.

3. The person walking the dog was doing it as a favor for the owner, who was suddenly hospitalized with a very bad illness. The dog-walker doesn’t own a dog and was also completely distracted by worry about the dog’s owner, and so didn’t think to bring any clean-up equipment. When the dog went on our lawn, the dog-walker was mortified but had no way of dealing with it.

4. This dog is extremely reliable: for a decade, he has pooped one time per day, never more, never less. The owner therefore brings only one clean-up bag. This time the dog pooped twice. The owner was shocked, amazed, and mortified, and intends to bring an extra bag on the very next walk to clean up our yard—but I cleaned it up first, which will make the owner even more mortified.

The levels of frustration I’ve experienced trying to install LeapFrog applications on my computer have been UNRIVALED. …Well, perhaps the levels of frustration I felt when a baby cried jusssst as I was dropping off to sleep after the third feeding of the night, MAYBE that rivaled it.

I am not kidding when I say I have spent TWO SOLID HOURS trying to set up the Leapster 2 we got Henry for his birthday. I installed Connect, and it informed me that I need to install Adobe Flash Player, and then when I said “okay” it got those two installations tangled so that they were rapidly flickering between two error messages and I had to force the computer to shut down.

Then, when I tried installing the flash player FIRST and THEN doing the Leapfrog thing, it has told me that another user is running Connect, and I need to have that user log in and close the application. THERE ARE NO OTHER USERS ON MY COMPUTER. Okay, actually there are two other users, so that my dad and Paul can get into the computer if they need to—but neither of them DO get into my computer, and certainly neither of them has tried to install Connect, and I couldn’t have accidentally installed Connect as them because I don’t know their passwords.

I searched the error message and found instructions for fixing it—but the things I am supposed to remove from a folder are NOT THERE. Neither is the folder. I did a system-wide search for the folder and the items; not there.

I tried deleting ALL Leapfrog stuff from my computer and starting over. TO NO AVAIL.

The Leapster 2 told me I needed to click Eject to disconnect it, but there is no Eject until Connect is installed, which it will not do because another user is supposedly using it. AIIEEEEEEEEEEE.

It lost my tabs and re-sized my browser window. Meanwhile, Henry is crying because I told him he could play his new birthday Leapster, and he is now 4 years old so he is a very big boy and very patient, but even a very big and patient 4-year-old can only wait SO MANY HOURS.

I’ve done ZERO work this morning: no baby name post, and it’s lucky I already wrote my Milk and Cookies post but I do still need to proof it and post it [edit: okay, posted it, so now you can tell me what face moisturizer to try]. The children are not dressed. The dishes are on the table. Because I have spent ALL MORNING on this, and it is still not even CLOSE to being done. I am about ready to kill someone with my bare hands. Perhaps the Application Installing Please Wait lady:

(photo from Leapfrog.com)

Her hands are in NO WAY at the correct angle to be typing on that keyboard, and she would NOT be smiling if she was installing that Leapster 2.

Edited to add: FOLLOW-UP. Holy dice on a cracker. Okay, the key turned out to be this help page, which contained this information in case you can’t see it or the link no longer works or whatever:

I’d been searching for these documents and couldn’t find them. Then I noticed my search settings were on “this Mac” instead of “[name of my Mac],” or possibly the other way around, but anyway it was like I had two entire computer systems, and one of them had this set of documents and the other didn’t, and so I deleted them and everything worked fine—if by “fine” you mean “it still took another hour of sweating, swearing, and entering wayyyyyy too much personal information.”

I’d decided to just have him play with it WITHOUT doing the initial connecting to the computer (it’s not that it needs to be connected every time—just the first time to set it up), but then it nagged him every time he turned it on, and two of the four functions couldn’t be used. So I guess I’m glad I persevered but JEREMY PIVEN that was an ordeal.

Henry is four! Here he is with a sword he made out of Tinker Toys, and the giant forehead mosquito bite that prompted me to reschedule his portraits:

Good call.

I don’t generally do much Kid Birthday Talk here (oh, Kid Birthday FRETTING, sure, but I mean I save the developmental lists and sentimentality for my own journal, where even _I_ generally find them boring), but I’m a little different about Henry because he seems like a Blog Baby: he was BORN here. And today, when he turns 4 while the twins are still 5, it seems a little crazy to look back at when he was born: those little toddler twins, and then bringing a baby home before their 2nd birthday. But there he was. Henry. If there’d been two of him, I’ll bet we would have made the local paper: “Two Sets of Twins Under Two!”

Here we are, right before he arrived:

Tired much?

This is a picture I didn’t want to keep because I thought I looked so dreadful. Now I’m so glad I made myself keep it, because I care about “having a picture of me pregnant and holding my toddler twins” more than I care about “my neck wrinkles and double chin and pinkish pregnancy skin and pulled-weird neckline and tensely-clenched hand.” Those neck wrinkles aren’t going to get any SHALLOWER over the years, anyway.

And then a few days later I was back in my chair:

With a slight change.

And then less than two weeks later, the twins’ 2nd birthday, which I must have BAKED CAKES for while recovering from a c-section:

Yeah, I don’t really remember it. Good thing I have photos.

Henry’s birthday also feels different to me because he’s the caboose child: every birthday he has, the train pulls further away from the station. And sometimes that seems like a very happy, light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel kind of thing, and other times it seems like a very sad, midlife-crisis-inducing kind of thing. Because this is great:

But it means no more this:

I am finally reading The Year of Magical Thinking. Paul is wondering why I keep clinging to him tearily when he is just walking past me in the kitchen.

********

Speaking of books, if you have not yet purchased LIFE The Royal Wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton, I advise you NOT to. I pre-ordered it before there was even a description of it, still caught up in the unexpected happiness of re-watching the wedding three times when I’d thought I’d only be half-interested in seeing it ONCE. I figured that if it was by LIFE it would be pretty much guaranteed to be good. I imagined page after page of gorgeous photos, like other LIFE books I’ve read.

Or maybe I’m misremembering that the other books were by LIFE? Because in fact the book is almost worthless. It’s something like 125 pages, and about a dozen of them are about the wedding. All the rest is regurgitated photos of Diana, and of Will and Catherine as children, and of Kate in the sheer dress AGAIN FTLOG. And you know, that kind of thing is interesting TOO, but in a book ABOUT THE WEDDING, I want it ALL and ONLY about the WEDDING, and I want photos of EVERY MOMENT.

Furthermore, the writing quality is…iffy. Iffy AT BEST—as in, I kept TRYING to read it, and kept thinking, “No, never mind; I will just look at the photos.” Really, VERY disappointing. I put it in the library donation pile so at least maybe someone ELSE won’t have to pay money for it.

********

I did not think that a CHRIS ROCK documentary about black women’s hair was going to make me burst into tears not once, not twice, but MANY TIMES—-but there it is. And this was BEFORE I started reading The Year of Magical Thinking. (Though, now that I think of it, AFTER the wine.)

I’m having soup for breakfast. It is a perfectly cromulent breakfast, but now I am onion-scented and it does seem too early for that.

********

This is the time of year when I start panicking if I’ve made the wrong decision and should quick buy a ticket for BlogHer ’11 before they sell out.

********

Listen, do you kind of want to get in on the whole “bloggers who run!” thing, but you are pretty sure you are genetically incapable of EVER getting in on the whole “I was feeling lazy, so I just did a short 10 mile run today!” thing? Reading and Chickens is doing a Nerd 5K for the socially-awkward, can-I-just-wear-my-jeans?, wanting-to-die-after-1-minute-of-running among us. Here’s the FAQ. The 5k will be run, or walked, or pretended-to-run-it-while-actually-sitting-at-home at the same time on the same day wherever you are, so we don’t have to make eye contact with anyone or worry that anyone is looking at us. I don’t know if I’m doing it or not: I’m in the stage of fretting and considering and making lists of pros and cons—which, if I know me, will last until it is too late to join in. But at this point I am favorably INCLINED toward the idea, and will consider it as I’m dying during my 1.5-mile walk.

********

Henry calls Venus fly-traps “Fleenus Try-Traps.” If you tell him the actual pronunciation, I will cutchoo.

********

Please help me boss Sara into naming her baby girl Penelope Rosalie. There is a poll, so you can boss her there if you don’t want to leave a comment.

On the review blog: review of a custom-decorated (with stickers) toothbrush and toothpaste for kids, with a $100 Visa gift card giveaway. Through June 9th.

The other morning I was driving over to my mom’s house, and there was a bird standing in the road, right in the middle of my lane. And I thought, “It’s funny how these birds always LOOK like they’re going to get hit in exchange for their nonchalance, and then they fly away at the last minute”—and within a few seconds later I was driving over the part of the road with the bird on it, yet without having seen a bird take flight at the last second, and there was a thunk, and when I looked behind me there was a dead bird in the road. It must have flown up JUST as I got to it, and then gotten hit by the front of the car before it got high enough. And the dim thing is that if it had just NOT FLOWN, it wouldn’t have gotten hit. This is like the worst fable ever.

This came on the heels of discovering YET ANOTHER bird in our house, killed by our cats. They are killing one pretty much every day now, despite me stringing MULTIPLE JINGLE BELLS on their collars. And on one hand I am settled with the idea of this being the natural order of things, and even with the idea that the thinning out of the slower/dumber birds makes the bird species stronger—but neither of these concepts leaves me settled with the part where that same morning there was a bird foot, JUST a bird foot, on my carpet. And a wing, JUST a wing, in the hallway. It makes me hate our cats, and of course I’ve long since stopped putting out food for the birds.

Anyway, that same day, when I hit and killed a bird with my car after spending part of my morning hating our cats as I cleaned up their recent kill, I drove past the same spot just a few minutes later on my way home, and the bird was gone. So, I mean, one possibility is that it got nipped up by some other animal, or got hit by another car in a way that flung it off the road (though the car would have had to be way out of its lane to manage that). But you know what I think is most likely? I’ll bet what actually happened, rather than my theory of it flying right in front of my car at the exact wrong time, is that it flew up AFTER my car was already ABOVE it, and it bonked its head really hard and got stunned, like birds sometimes do when they fly into a window but not hard enough to kill themselves. And then it lay there in the road for awhile, recovering itself. And then it sprang up and flew off. (Hey, now you could TOTALLY use this in a fable!)

Every year we receive two perky messages from the school about what the children are wearing. One comes in December, when we are reminded that “Gone are the days of heat waves and sandals!!” and the other comes in May, when we are similarly prompted to look out our windows and observe changes in the weather. I am annoyed EVERY TIME, even though I KNOW there is a need for such notices. No, I KNOW. Do not tell me I would be surprised: I would NOT be surprised, because I ALREADY KNOW.

But my own children are NOT wearing flip-flops in the snow, or bikini tops and short shorts as soon as it hits 70 degrees, and so I don’t like to have someone CHIRPING at me about it as if “we” forgot to take “our” “meds” this morning. I wish there were a practical way to send these notices only to those who need them. NO, I GET IT, THERE IS NO PRACTICAL WAY. But are we also in general agreement that the people who NEED to be told that their children should not wear flip-flops in the snow are NOT going to be affected by a school-wide chirpy little notice? “Oh! The school is right: flip-flops and snow DON’T go together! Silly old me, I’d forgotten the days were getting shorter and Old Man Winter was on his way!”

This is Rob’s first year of middle school, and HA HA HA HA HA! Oh, I do feel SO SORRY for the middle school staff. I can picture their weary postures, and the way they go home to their spouses and say “You would not BELIEVE how much RIGHTEOUS ANGER an 8th-grade girl can manufacture over the definition of the word ‘crop top.’ No, you would not believe it. No, don’t even try, just…bring me a bottle of wine and a funnel.”

I can HEAR in the newsletter that the middle school staff does not WANT to make a dress code. They want to say, “Wear REASONABLE clothing, please, and let’s get on with the day.” But no: the children push and Push and PUSH, until the staff is FORCED to say things such as “Shoulders of tops must be at least three (3) inches wide.” I’m sure that in the beginning they were thinking, as I am, “What’s wrong with a tank top?” And many VERY HEADACHEY days later, it’s “three inches” and then needing to spell out that “three” = 3.

This one seems to me to come from the calm that only psychiatric medication can provide: “Necklines of shirts should provide thorough coverage of the chest area.” THOROUGH! When the writer of that line was in college headed for a career in academia, did he or she think they would be spending time forming that sentence? And would he or she consider changing “chest area” to “chestal region,” because that would be way funnier. And then, in the part about the shoulders of tops, I think we should say “shoulderage.”

“Undergarments cannot be visible at any time.” I’ll bet the first draft included “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE” and a long scream.

“Pajama/lounge pants are not permitted” seems like it is just ASKING for trouble. Does this mean yoga pants? But those are perfectly reasonable pantsage! Is it NO soft pants at all? “All pants must have a snap and a zipper and belt loops, and be made of a sturdy fabric such as canvas or denim; more than 2% spandex is not permitted”? Mark my words, there will be such changes in the next memo!

This is why schools end up thinking to themselves, “You know what? We are done. UNIFORMS.” Which only leads to MORE rules. “Waistbands of skirts must not be folded over.” “Uniform elements must be the appropriate size, neither slouchy nor skin-tight.” “Knee socks must be within one (1) inch of the knee.” “Hooker-style thigh-high lace-up boots may not be worn.” “Lip balm may not be worn, because we are not talking to ONE MORE middle-school girl about the difference between ‘balm’ and ‘gloss’.” “Parents should be advised that their children are a huge pain in the ass. Thank you for your consideration.”

I dreamed last night that a VERY CUTE boy was interested in me. Unfortunately, when my dream mind discovered that the boy was 18, it did not do what _I_ would have done in ITS shoes, which would have been to assume _I_ was also 18. No. Instead my dream mind said to me: “Hey. Hey, wait. *counting on fingers* Aren’t you nearly TWENTY YEARS older than that? I don’t think this is AT ALL appropriate. Not at ALL. Seriously. Ick. And…wait. Aren’t you also MARRIED? We need to stop this right here.” Then my dream mind went and fetched Paul and had him take away my glass of champagne and make a pointed remark about my “boyfriend“—with heavy quotes, just like that, and not a very pleasant tone of voice, either.

Thanks a lot, dream mind. This reminds me of once when I was on a diet and I dreamed that I was very tempted by a bunch of candy but didn’t eat it. Come on, now, that is TOO STRICT.

********

I recently gave up on a book after 220 pages, which I think may be unprecedented for me. Despite being very familiar with the concept of sunk costs (that is, that the amount of time I’ve spent reading the book is irrelevant to the decision about whether to KEEP reading it, since I can’t get that time back either way), I have trouble putting it into practice. And besides, with a book, it MIGHT pay off to continue reading it. Though, admittedly, probably this is more true at 50 pages than at 220.

It was bugging me because there was a ton of foreshadowing to keep the suspense going, but then the foreshadowed events were never as big a deal as they’d seemed like they’d be. Plus, most of it was made up. Which is to be expected of fiction, of course, but in this case the narrator was also making up a story: imagining what things were like for his parents before he was born, when he hadn’t been told those stories. So then I felt like I was reading fiction about fiction: the story wasn’t even true within the covers of the book.

********

But then I read a book I liked very much: You Know When the Men are Gone, by Siobhan Fallon (photo from Amazon.com).

It is a TEENSY bit “you civilian wives have no idea how good you’ve got it,” and I’m not sure anyone can make that kind of statement about anything (parenting, working, location, relationships, lifestyle choices/non-choices of any sort) without it being kind of annoying. And since NO ONE experiences ALL life circumstances, it’s also kind of a duh thing to bring up: we ALL live a way that only other people who live the same way would understand, and ALL those ways include some things that would be considered disadvantages—and other things that would be considered advantages. If the book had instead JUST told the stories, without adding the little preachies about how much better things are for civilians, I would have received the message ANYWAY, but without feeling prickly about it.

Another problem is that it’s short stories, which I hadn’t realized when I checked it out of the library. And while I partly love short stories, I also partly hate them: they leave me stranded just when I’ve gotten fully invested in the situation. But these particular stories overlap each other a little, which I LOVE, so. Still, there are a couple where I thought, “No. You can’t just leave it without any sort of ending and and call it done.”

Boy, it sounds like I DIDN’T like this book, doesn’t it? But I DID. I liked it in an “I NEED TO SEE WHAT ELSE THIS AUTHOR HAS WRITTEN” way. (Nothing, sadly.) It is just, when I like a book, I don’t want to talk it up too much because then you’re BOUND to be disappointed, and also I want to make sure I mention the things I DIDN’T like so that when you read it you don’t say “She liked THIS?”