Over the last three days I have read more than twenty books from beginning to
end. Granted, not one of them was more than ten or so pages long, and few of
the pages were covered with words alone. In fact, fifteen of those books
were Frosty the Snowman (Is. refers to this one as "Mona;" all snowmen,
for that matter, are "mona" or more likely "monae"). Frosty the Mona,
fifteen times. You’ve forgotten it?

She probably didn’t realize (or care that) anybody was watching when I snapped
this one while she flipped through the latest CCC, turning, no doubt, to
the Revisions piece by
Anne,
Collin, and Jeff for something to relieve the mona earworm (what’s more
accurately an earfrog when I am the one sing-reading the lyrics, fifteen
times over).

Few other events and curiosities to report about this quiet,
restful week. I am back to ±90% of full
strength and energy after a surprisingly intensive bout with the flu (an after-semester flu-crash has
become an annual pattern by now, our fourth year in Syracuse). Ahead, a
couple more days of laying low, flipping back and forth between sporting events
on the television, and not feeling bothered that large blocks of time slip by
without anything work-like to add value to them. In fact, so that Y. is not
bored, I am obligated to at least eight or nine more hours of sitting on the couch and holding his new football toy just
out of
reach between now and the kick-off of Saturday evening’s Pats-Giants game. Would
it be too much with the dog-toy voodoo to call Y. "Tom Brady" for the next three
days and then let him hold the ball just long enough that I can rough him up and
force him to fumble?

Nah, I probably won’t do that.