Sunday, Sunday

My house is quiet. Dido is at a neighbor's, playing with one of his best buddies. The Babe is taking an epic (no doubt soon to be over) nap, after a pretty sleepless night. The H is in his home office, furiously trying to finish a script so that peace is maintained in our little corner of the world. This leaves me in a weird state of limbo. I am so used to filling my time and brain with everyone else's projects, needs, whims and whines that when I have a few moments to myself, I am almost paralyzed. Clean my office? Pay the bills? Work on my writing? Today, I elected to bury myself in the two Sunday papers, and it has been lovely. I especially encourage you to read this interview with one of the founders of Bitch magazine, which I have never read, and which I am going to run right out to find. (Truthfully, the interview has more poorly-aimed snark than it does smart, but it nonetheless made me want to learn more about the lovely and tattoed Andi Zeisler.) And since, as I turned forty this year, I committed to doing a better job of finding my own inner bitch, maybe this will help. Though I'm doing pretty well on my own.

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