Sarah and I went to the grocery yesterday (of course), and just as we’re pulling into the checkout line, this chick asks us if we want hot french bread. Now that’s like asking me if I want a free one hour massage. Duh. I confess there have been days when we discover the bread upon walking into the store and we cruise the aisles and happily chomp on our warm bread as we go. I’ve stopped short of buying that squirty butter while I’m still shopping, mostly because of the mess, not because of the embarrassment. Unfortunately, this time, Sarah and I had to endure the torture of the carbo aroma without the taste. New car. Big crumbs. Bad. We held off until we unloaded the groceries, and then slathered slices with butter and enjoyed every bite.

Short post today. Still have to punish myself on the treadmill (I’m having weight gain due to medication issues—I’m either going to be a thin, depressed person or a pudgy anxiety-free one who’s mildly depressed due to poundage), grade papers, write a synopsis, fix dinner for me and Sarah, grade more papers, grade more papers. I am excited about the synopsis writing. Long story for another day, but I found someone who’s going to critique my synopsis for my women’s fiction. I just changed the name from Going Nowhere Fast to Walking on Broken Glass. At this point the title is insignificant, but I think pondering the title change lulled me into believing I was “doing” something with my novel. You know, like when you can’t change anything in your life, so you get a new haircut or hair color and then regain your sanity and wonder why you look like an aging punk rocker and what color is that on top of your scalp anyway? I may have to get Annie Lennox’s permission if we ever get to publication. But, should I finally finish and God bless me, sell, the publisher can call it whatever s/he wants as long as my name is spelled correctly on the cover.

So–I’m signing off for now. If I could figure out how to walk on the treadmill and write at the same time…