My husband bought this thing called the Echo–we call her Alexa–so I’ve been walking into my kitchen to tell my robot servant to play Christmas music or to ask her what the temperature is outside. My Trekkie husband has been saying things like, “Alexa: Tea. Earl Grey. Hot.” To which she replies “Replicators are offline” or “I’m not a replicator.”
I read Emma Cline’s The Girls and Googled the heck out of Charles Manson, then had a hard time sleeping that night.
I had three custom cartoon portraits in the hopper. I’ve drawn a chicken with a fro, a Delorean, and am working on several dinosaurs.
It snowed here in Seattle, which doesn’t happen very often. Then my Facebook feed blew up with pictures of kids in the snow (including my own).
Today is the girl‘s first birthday–can you believe it? I can’t believe it. We were going to have a party but poor baby is sick. I get the feeling that’s going to happen to her a lot. I was often sick on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Throw a birthday midway between the two and I’d say the likelihood of being sick on at least one of them is pretty significant. But I’m no mathematician.
The Sensitive, Bookish Type 