After five days of being semi-snowbound, we are back to the old routine. Thank every merciful deity you can think of.
On the Mooch toss -- yes, we are all aware that it is wrong on a number of different levels. We would never, ever consider tossing Trout (our other cat, not an actual fish) into the snow. Even just considering makes me all squoozy inside because it would be too much like flinging a baby into a drift, then pointing and laughing. But Mooch is a different case. You might just have to trust me on this one -- or move in for a week or two. And if you do want to move in, please be prepared to clean and babysit.
Apropos of little, this link to a Guardian photo story about writer's rooms. Is it telling that the first thing I noticed was the lack of kid-related crap on each of these writer's desks? Where are the naked Barbies? Where are the half-drunk sippies? Where are the stuffing-oozing Beanie Babies? How do you get anything done when you don't have to keep an eye out for Dina, the rubber dinosaur who frequently winds up by my right elbow? How do you print anything when you don't have to spend 20 minutes tracking down the paper tray that one of your angels has thoughtfully hidden? It's a crazy world for these writers. Crazy.