N and I talked about sex last night. Might not seem outrageous being that we’re married, but it’s something I rarely talk about. Once again, that may seem strange because I’m (or I consider myself) such a sexual person. I just don’t talk about it. Anyway, we talked about the ways we’re different – and I was amused that the ways we’re different are so stereotypical for our genders. He’s a visual person – and I’m so so mental. It was just funny. We talked for a long time, which was really nice, except that I was exhausted and totally ready to pass out.

I noticed this morning that I have made my mark on the house. How’s that? Books. Everywhere. In the spare room, Great Books on a folded quilt with a pencil for a bookmark – I was sprawled there reading last night. In my “office,” an edition of Eliot right on top of the answering machine – I was thinking Prufrock for the message. In the bathroom, The Animal Family – I was carrying it around and must’ve put it down there. In the living room, among the stacks, Orlando – I paused in my cataloging to read. In the kitchen, The Western Canon – again, must’ve been carrying it around. I’m making this place MINE, one book at a time.

Oh, and for those who have asked, yes, the hole in the street is better. It’s all gone, actually, and now they’re at work making more holes further up. Good times.

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