I'm all alone; Karen is probably shopping after her stint with the Bible Club children.
I'm sort of stymied by Kay Fanning's Alaska Story. She died before writing about her titanic struggle/joint operating agreement with the Titan of Alaskan publishing, that eventually lead to the closing of Alaska's largest newspaper so the rest of the book is filled out by Alaskan luminaries' memories of her. I mean, I'm stymied, but she's dead. Anyway, this minute, with the house to myself, I don't feel like reading, TV is awfully repetitive; I really feel like just sitting and staring into space. Instead, though, I'm typing in my blog. For the last two days I've tried to think of something to write about. I've evaluated each event: gamboling moose (actually that was pretty cool), weather, the absence of any meaningful snow removal on our streets, how successful Kathy Field is and whether her family background gave her an advantage (at an age when I was being photographed with my finger up my nose, she was having dinner with Richard Nixon) why my father even would photograph me with my finger up my nose, and so on.
I know some people are accused of living vicariously through their children or celebrities and their children, but is it possible I'm living my life vicariously through my blog? How attenuated and sad that sounds.