This morning I accidentally dropped the alarm clock down the stairs, an action that does not seem to have been good for it. However, earlier in the morning this very same clock had declined to alarm at the preset time, setting off a flurry of lateness reminiscent of every stereotypical Monday you ever saw reenacted on a television sitcom. In sum, I'm a little bit sorry the clock died a violent death, but not a lot sorry.
Today's weather is grey with yellow streaks. The outdoor temperature is 8 and the indoor temperature is variable, depending on contiguity to the wood stove. Goethe is the anthology topic du jour. Our featured boring chore is going to the dentist, and our most delicious refrigerated leftover is tapenade. The old-dog breakfast menu includes kibble and chicken scraps, while the human dinner menu features chicken broth and orzo. (You see how intimately we synchronize all forms of dependent life here.) The time waster's novel is John Cheever's The Wapshot Chronicle, and the poem she composed in her head at 3 a.m. is as yet untitled. Bird of the day: hairy woodpecker. Drink of the day: oversized cup of lemon-ginger-headcold-killing tea (no sugar). Lucky number: one-fourth. Snowshoe conditions: crunchy. Featured sentence: interrogative.