Last day of poem-sorting. Already, the day is hot, and I have woken with a headache that shows no signs of dying. Despite all efforts, the mouse still lives in my kitchen.

On the good side, however, I am still wearing my summer nightgown, and I love my summer nightgown, which makes me feel like a cream puff, especially when I walk down stairs, because it tends to hold air and balloons up around me. I suspect this is not flattering to my physique, but the sensation is pleasant.

Also, there's much to be said for a second cup of excellent strong French roast coffee, made in a French press and served with Maine whole milk. The milk could be better--say, if it were from a Jersey cow who was a personal friend--but the coffee could hardly be improved upon.

And I think, in fact, that the coffee is doing is good work on the headache, so happiness may be imminent. Which reminds me: how can I forget last night's middle-aged charms, when I spent 2 hours lying on the couch with my head in Tom's lap, and we listened to the Red Sox on the radio as the dark crept through the open window and our children obediently played together in the next room? Yes, the Rangers' starting pitcher was "masterful" while the Sox pitcher was merely "showing some good stuff." But though our team lost for most of the game, it did manage to pull out an accidental victory in extra innings. And meanwhile, Tom and I enjoyed ourselves so peaceably that our sons, when they did eventually burst through the door, shouted incredulously, "What? You're still here?" We were pleased to say yes.