It rained this weekend, I was homesick for Chris and Abe Lincoln, and I have two cold sores and PMS. Desperate times require desperate measures, so I grabbed a New Yorker and one of the delicious cookies my sweet Tonto sent and got into the tub,
where I read an uplifting article about David Foster Wallace's inability to finish his last novel and subsequent suicide.
When I got out of the tub -- finally warm but even more depressed and worried I might have contracted nun's foot, a strain of athlete's foot that's rampant in convents -- I found the British playwright had left flowers in my studio and my "art buddy" (a T.Diddy townsperson) had brought me some dried sage and other herbs from her ranch.
I am a lucky (if grumpy) woman.