I didn't know how successful I would be when I resolved never to leave the house again. I had no overwhelming reason to venture out this weekend, and I'm letting David use my car tomorrow (his is in the shop), so the only way I'll get out is if someone gives me a ride. At this rate, they might even finish tearing up all those streets and putting them back together before I have to drive on them.

Funny, isn't it? Now that I have my car back, I can't drive it anywhere, but that doesn't matter because I don't have it anyway. I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere, something about flying in the face of the fickle finger of fate. I haven't the inclination to explore it any further, to no one's great surprise and to everyone's great relief.

Where was I? I don't really need my car, in the short term, as long as I can get a ride to the post office. That's easy enough for Mom to do in the morning, or Suzanne in the afternoon. So it's no great hardship on me to let David take it to work. It's actually more of a burden on them, and we're all in this together anyway.

If it seems I'm at a loss for something to say about my day, well, I am. I slept in later than I should have, but I didn't do anything with my time once I was up, so it didn't really matter. I couldn't stay focused on anything much today, not the thirteen football games, or the new book I've just started reading, or anything else.

The first third or so of a new book is always slow going for me. I'm a slow reader, as I've mentioned several times here, and I get distracted by other commitments. Sometimes I get distracted by the blue jays outside my window, or the cobwebs on the ceiling. No matter how good a book is, the last half is like a downhill slope, compared to getting through the first half. I spent most of Saturday finishing Homecoming, by Cynthia Voigt.

I mentioned to my fifteen-year-old cousin in Iowa in a message tonight that I appreciate having her to buy books for, because it makes it easier for me to go to the young adult section of the store. Not that anyone cares if an old guy like me is buying books written for teenagers, but I'm aware of the incongruity.

She mentioned that she's into Stephen King now, though, so that whole idea is blown out of the water.

The book I'm reading now, by the way, is a recent bestseller on the adult fiction lists. I won't mention the title, because if it's good enough, it could turn out to be a present for someone, and I'd hate to spoil the surprise.

On the other hand, if it stinks, it'll go into my personal remainder bin with about ninety percent of what I read. I've never been known for my taste.