A chilly, slightly icy morning out there, and the cat is disappointed in God. Meanwhile, my phone is filled with texts from my sons: baseball trade news from Paul; continuations of a silly people-watching game from James.

As he and I were sitting in the lobby of the Museum of Contemporary Art a few days ago, we found ourselves watching one particularly eye-catching couple: white, in their 30s, dressed to the nines, she in what I can only describe as business-casual dominatrix garb, he in sharp shoes and a fedora.

"What are their names?" I whispered to James.

He thought a moment and then whispered back: "They're both named Sloan. But only one has an 'e.' They trade off on who gets it."

Since then, Sloane and Sloan have become a part of our texting conversations. Last night, for instance, I wrote: "I wonder what Sloane and Sloan are having for dinner."

His response: "Hmmm. Cauliflower that tastes like steak and looks like gold spheres. At a two-table restaurant with no sign and an 8-month waiting list."

You can see why I love my children so.

* * *

Today I've got class prep to do, and I'd like to work on some revisions. I'll probably go to the writing salon tonight as Tom will also be out this evening, at a photo event. And, sigh, I have to Christmas-shop. I am so bad at it. And I dislike it so much. I get no pleasure from prodding through piles of stuff in stores, unless the piles are old and weird and/or are books.