Sunday night

That trip to Massachusetts didn’t happen, after all. My ancestors, disrespected below, got their revenge: I woke up Saturday morning with throat glands the size of lemons. (And no, it’s not your imagination. I get sick a lot. But, seven bowls of spicy tomato soup later, my immune system is ready to kick your ass.)

Tonight I spoke with my stepdaughter, A, whose family went through Hurricane Charley last year and has hunkered down to await a possible direct hit from Wilma. She didn’t want to talk about the storm, but she did extol the virtues of the latest Lemony Snicket book, particularly the part where the Baudelaire children stayed at the “Hotel Denouement,” arranged according to the Dewey Decimal system.

I asked her how long she’d have to wait for the next book, the last in the series.

“Maud! This one just came out,” she said, in a slightly more impatient version of the voice she uses when responding to her baby brother’s questions. She paused. Then she mused, “So I guess I should wait until next month before I start checking the Lemony Snicket website every day.”


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