I know that to call myself a writer is insulting all those who actually are writers, but I've got the block. My entries thrive on strange encounters with everyday people in less than exciting situations. Between the grocery store, school pickup line and local restaurants, I could blog for months. This new middle school-four soccer teams and three kids kind of life is screwing up my observation time. Okay, that's not entirely true. The soccer fields are a wealth of information, but most of the time I am glued to a game and trying not to vomit. You understand, right?
I will say this before I retire to watch the new version of Sherlock Holmes that I am suspicious about: my oldest turns eleven tomorrow. Eleven. I cannot believe it. Eleven years ago today, I had finished up nesting and had started a crying jag while my mother and the hub tried to explain that "the baby is coming and tough if you are scared." I think I may have slept an hour that night. I got through it and I'll go into that more tomorrow. Now I must away to bed and TV. Sloth awaits....
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