Yesterday was a good day. My subway car was empty on my morning commute, so I reclined regally on the bench as David Rakoff curled his lip at the world. Work was light, and we got a new coffee maker whose product doesn't taste like the business end of an Irish setter. (Which could be either end, now that I think of it.) The weather was fair and breezy for our afternoon baseball-apalooza; Robert snared two line drives, and TwoBert got his first real hit on a ball that was pitched to him. Gleeful yelping ensued.
Then the four of us went to our friend's soft opening of her new Thai restaurant. The boys spent a good hour entertaining passersby and handing out menus--literally singing for their supper--and the poor saps who were just trying to get home for the night never had a chance. The menus were gone in no time, and everyone left smiling.
Note to guerrilla marketers: To get your message out there, hire darling three-year-olds with cheeks streaked with barbecue sauce. My boys are available, but they do not work cheap.
Anyway, life was so good and savorable yesterday that I neglected to write about another soft opening--the announced pre-order of Sleep is for the Weak. It's a compendium of a lot of great writing from a lot of great bloggers, among whom I completely do not belong. They are all mommies, who have gestated and expelled a baby through their specific apertures. (I sprained my ankle once, and I'm told it's not the same.) I'm very glad to be a part of the book, but my inclusion is mere formality, the result of some arcane Title IX clause involving "token testicles."
The hero of this endeavor is the indomitable Rita, who hemmed and hawed and scratched and clawed and shocked and awed this book into existence. It will be published in the fall, and will be featured at BlogHer, and several of us will be appearing at signings and so forth at a superhip someplace near you.
I don't know what a "mommyblogger" is, but apparently I am one. Do you suppose that would be an asset on an online dating profile?