Sorry, dear micies, for the silence today. I'm feeling empty of things to say. My mom lost her job a few weeks ago to unethical, bullshit pettiness run amok, and life feels too big to condense into something prettier, more charming. I'm planning to recoup over the weekend, and hope to be my cheerful self by Monday.

Strategies:
1. Eat hot wings
2. Find a really big, tree-like plant for our living room
3. Go to a belly-dancing class for the first time
4. Finish something on my unending to-do list (anything, really)
5. Kiss He-Mouse

I would like to bite the head off of one of these pastry mice. But I can't, because they live in A.J.'s very fancy grocery store in Tucson, Arizona. It's the sort of place you go to not to shop (not on our budget), but rather to walk up and down the aisles and look at things. It's as close as you come to a mercado full of fresh vegetables, or a Parisian stall selling fresh-baked bread on the street. We have one in Chicago like this, called Fox and Obel, where they sell amazing things like twenty kinds of olive oil, candy corn made with natural ingredients, honeycombs, chocolate with spicy chilies in it. Perhaps it's time for a field trip.

Haiti. Massachusetts. Fight with He-Mouse. Global Warming. Deadlines. Booooooooo.

See you tomorrow when the fit of grouchies has passed.

Mice, I need some help from you. As you can see from the campaign mentioned here and here, among other places, the drive to read more of the printed word is on. Despite the fact that my job, in fact, is to read insane quantities of books, I have run aground on new and interesting fiction lately. Could you please comment with a few stellar books you've read recently? I like everything.

Last weekend: drive to Michigan, ethereal, white on white. Old friends, new baby. Tromping in the woods and a long, long, cold metal slide. Tromp tromping some more. Homemade bread and butternut squash soup. Whisper, whisper for the sleeping baby. Cooing, wooden clacking toys and jingling silver rattles older than we are. Wine, Basque sheep's milk cheese, room-temp Gouda, soft creamy butter. Tours, campuses, brick buildings. Slow-cooked scrambled eggs and homemade cherry-rhubarb preserves. Peaceful ride home, holding hands, napping in and out, soft music. Home.

(Oh, and falling down the stairs and a big, star-shaped bruise on one butt cheek. But don't get me wrong, the most accurate description is up top.)