English people eat more broccoli

The second cancellation this week occurred yesterday when my mother remembered she had back to school night, and I chose to go home instead of hanging around her high school meeting bleary colleagues and angry parents. That meant there was time to finish "Victor's Solo" – inasmuch as it can be considered finished when the piece gets interrupted in the movie so it has no resolution – some of the chords still don't sound right, but it's enough until the sheet music gets published – and catch the end of the Yankee game. Two words, New Yorkers: GO SOX. 

 

Towards the end of the evening I started to feel strangely restless – the kind of discomfort where your clothes irritate, you don't want to sit or stand, you don't really want to be in your skin. So I went to bed, but slept lightly and kept waking up. I blame this, and catilinarian's announcement that she'll be attending Connotations this weekend, for what I dreamt. ( And before you ask, yes, I realize very few people have ever had a slashy dream about Lord Byron. )

 

Lest this become a journal where most entries revolve around my bizarre unconscious adventures, reality returneth. Wednesday synn found out she had a free evening so there was much rejoicing in the form of sushi, ice cream, new digital camera, accidental alienation of her mother, and viewing of the much-put-off I Heart Huckabees, which delay, as it turns out, was entirely justified. I maintain that a large portion of the enjoyment of that film comes from saying "Huckabees."

 

My not-so-little sister is coming home after her LSAT on Saturday and staying for the week. Also the weather grows ever crisper and it's now socially acceptable to wear sweaters outside as well as in the icebox otherwise known as our office. Soon it will be colored leaves, apple picking, Halloween, harvest moon time. Therefore I am joyous.