Alarm didn't go off this morning, so we are floundering, elephantine, around the house trying to pretend we remember all of the steps to the get-Tom-off-to-work dance. But I did manage to make coffee, and now I am sitting here in my couch corner attempting to become awake.

I spent much of yesterday with my friend Betsy, who's recovering from a concussion and is highly bored by not being able to read, write, or even watch convalescent TV. We went for a long walk, and then we ate lunch at her place, and we talked nonstop, so I am hoping that at least I made her tired enough for a nap. Otherwise I had a pretty quiet day.

But what would a day be without car trouble? Would it be any day at all? On Wednesday, as I was coming back from Monson, a truck kicked a stone into my windshield, and the ding, which I considered ignoring, has turned into an expanding crack, which I cannot ignore, and so there goes another $400 into the pockets of the car guys (a cost that neatly slips under the insurance deductible, of course). Meanwhile, T's truck is still in the shop: we have yet to learn what that astronomical fee will be. [Cue teeth gnashing here.]

Well, at least I don't have to go anywhere. Tom can borrow my wounded car, and I can stay home and dust the shelves and polish the dining room table and work on my poem and read a sad novel and walk to the store. It would be nice to never need two cars again. Those days are not here yet, but maybe someday.