My sisters and their hubbies made it home from Mexico safe and sound. Considering the four Canadian tourists who have been killed down there in the past year, it is a concern.

I don't have a damn thing to write about. Let me think, let me think ... okay, I'm reading Nora, the real life of Molly Bloom, who was a character in James Joyce's Ulysses; the character was modelled largely upon Joyce's wife Nora.

Why, oh why, does the author insist on telling me way more than I want to know about Joyce's fetishes? He was fascinated by the solider output of the human body's bottom end. It turned him on. There's a name for such an interest but it slips my mind at the moment.

How do we know about this fetish? Because James Joyce and Nora wrote back and forth for a while, about what they would like to do to each other. This was after they'd already lived together for several years and had two children. I wonder if it ever occurred to them that some day the whole world would know what they did in the bedroom. It's enough to make me clean up my diaries REAL GOOD, because you just. never. know.

A general idea would have been more than enough for me. There is a point beyond which I don't want to know more. Certainly not the "dirty" details.

Not that there's anything wrong with that ... as they'd say on Seinfeld. But EWWW... please, don't make me picture it!