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Colin Firth, Hugh Grant, Charles Dance, Dave Matheson, and Cary Grant.

This morning: 98

No spitwads today. Naughty student forty minutes tardy; missed quiz. Class laughed, you laugh, I laugh.

Really, really, really tired.

Highlight of the day: Wes. Thank you, dear friend. Your timing was perfect.

Zappa is sick – killer migraine and pre-flu thanks to sniffly sister. Stopped at Marsh to buy illness food, ie orange juice and popsicles. Ended up spending fifty-eight bucks on food for him. Went to his apartment after school and rubbed his feet, arms, and head for three hours. Took him to school. Came home. Made sloppy joes for Hub. Served it up on plate with cottage cheese. Elegance, minus the rose. Ate one myself. Gourmet delight for dinner tonight. Again.

After sloppy joe: 304

Shaky.

Sense of grammar gone. Enough sense left to notice.

I am in the mood for a party. Going, not giving. I have no desire to clear enough space from floor to run sweeper.

Kids were here recently. Enough dirty glassware on furniture to fill dishwasher. So many water rings on coffee table, we’ve been asked if it was a birdseye. Under layers of veneer, might very well be.

Time to lean back for a while.

Man, it’s hot in here. Don’t these people believe in air-conditioning? Oh, really? Well, it must be me, then.

After six months, street leading directly to college has been repaired. Still taking detour from force of habit.

Badly in need of nap. Wish now I hadn’t stripped bed this morning. Can’t take nap till clean sheets put back on bed. Sofa looking pretty good.

(Grumpily removes kids’ stuff from sofa cushions.) You shoulda seen this place when they lived here.

Listening to Mozart. Resenting his talent. Jealous of it.