Weather, Elaine hair, previa, a quick nap, then more weather, peeping toms, curtains, cake for breakfast, ennui, and a Pulitzer.

We've got rain. Lots of it. Am very thrilled, because desert people like me grow weary of sunny, 70 degree winter days, and feel like rain on the ground is an obscene but delicious display of luxury and waste, as if we could afford to let water fall onto the dry, bare earth, pool on our lawns, or run in the streets, when we normally have so little and it is so precious a commodity. My hair is very fuzzy, though. Is not quite wet enough to make it look super great like when we were on the Maid of the Mist. I am quite puffed with pride about this fact, because who's hair looks good at Niagara Falls? That's right. MINE.

(Sister Jen, Ross, and me, in the back)

And that was before the boat ride. It just got bigger and beautifuller from there. No, that isn't sarcasm. I genuinely think it looked good. In an Elaine from Seinfeld, but not quite Felicity sort of way.

But anyway. Like you care about my hair. But really, I got nothin else for you.

Just sitting here, itching (no, I didn't forget the 'B'). I'm pretty tired cause I had book club here at the house last night (and into this morning.) We talked (among other, secret, lady, things) about Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol, cause everybody was reading it anyway. I found it less offensive than the Da Vinci Code (I'm not Catholic, but I felt they were unfairly vilified, plus it took me like 10 hours of research to figure out what was true and what was not), but also more boring. C'mon, Robert Langdon, get your rear in gear. Two hundred pages into Da Vinci, you'd cruised halfway across Western Europe, but in Lost Symbol, you are still poking about the bowels of the U.S. Capitol building. His themes were interesting (Noetics, Freemasonry, Washington architecture), but his characters' motivations are completely unbelievable. Completely.

Still, if you are bored...you could read it. The bad guy is creepy and violent, though. You are warned.

Went to the baby Doc yesterdee and found out my placenta is clear of my cervix, so no previa, no (scheduled) C-section! I'm cleared for take-off. In you know, eight weeks. Or really nine, cause I've gone a week over with everybody but Sam, who was 5 weeks early, for no reason that anybody could figure out.

We still can't figure him out. The other day Sam came in from playing outside. He was shirtless and breathless. He yelled: Mom! I'm skins! So I asked: Oh? Who are you playing with out there? And he replied: Nobody.

I just took a moment to stare off into space and nap with my eyes open. There might have been a small amount of drool involved.

This rain is fantastic. The swimming pool looks like it might overflow. I wonder what I could do about that? Plus, nobody walks along the canal/plays on the golf course behind the house because it is too wet and/or muddy. So I don't have any peeping toms (just, you know, actual Toms, who are my son) staring into my still uncurtained bedroom window (I know, is not the peeper's fault, I should go to the fabric store today. I am thinking just some thick upholstery-type fabric with blackout lining with rings on a pole, very practical, and will fulfill Jake's desire to have it "hotel room dark" for his Sunday afternoon naps. But then I also kind of want to make some 24 inch tall cornice boxes with an eyebrow arch and gold cording. The thing is, I'm not sure my back is up to handling this big a project just now).

I'll get to it, just after I eat some more of this leftover lemon cake. It is tasty.

Boy oh boy. I'm all sleepy and ennui-y and boring. Someday, when they give me the Pulitzer for writing the best blog in the world, I don't think they will point to Friday, January 23 (who knows if that is the real date, and I'm too lazy to go look it up), and say THIS! This here post represents the blogger phenom who is Beeswax, in all her literary glory.

I can live with that, I'm fairly certain.