I must get food into me. But while the iron is striking hot, I want to write. I haven’t updated for a few days because I am thinking “Who cares what I did today, anyway?” and wondering if people think “What a waste of time, writing about what she baked today and how many dishes she has to wash.”

Maybe it’s time I weighed the merits, if any.

But first, I shall stick a couple slices of bread into the toaster-oven.

Everett and I went to the Co-op yesterday and he was pissed off because I wouldn’t let him buy me a birthday cake similar to what I bought for his birthday.

“They’re 20 dollars, Everett,” I said. “I don’t want you to spend that much money on a cake for me. We can make a cake at home, or cupcakes.”

He was miffed. “I have the money in the bank, you know.”

We’d been to The Inn, where I attended my first arts council meeting. We pass The Inn on our way to and from town. Its front office is an A-frame building. Near it are every conceivable “mom and pop” lawn and house decoration known to humankind, and then some. There are lots of things to look at, and I always do when we drive by. If it were made of cookie dough, The Inn would be the gingerbread house.

Indoors, it is the same thing: lots to look at. Everett and I walked in to a casual welcome by two women busily preparing lunch, and were instructed to lay our coats on a couch. In a tiny porch off the living room, we met Babe, a bristly and solid little sweetie who sat right down and put her whole heart into having her head scratched.

Someone has painted her toenails.