I've never had to mail anything longer than a hundred pages before. Probably only 65 pages, really, that one time, when I liked to pretend that By Right of Conquest was a short story and before I turned it into "An Almanac for the Alien Invaders" and then it actually was a short story.

Today--was supposed to be yesterday, but yesterday was Stupid, capital S--I mailed the 439 pages of my book manuscript to my agent. She claims this request (for me to mail it) shows her age, though I would guess from her picture she's younger than me, so whatever. I mailed it. I can (I hope) tell all the writers in 2049 that yes, by gum, I was alive and working in the age of mailed manuscripts, which is (I bet) an age that is not long for this world.

Yesterday evening, I was trying to slide the 439 pages into a too-small (padded) (Jiffy #5) envelope. Tried and tried and tried. It was like watching a modern-day office Sisyphus at work. If I bend it a little bit this way... If I fold it a little bit that way... Perhaps if I move the middle into the eighth dimension? Until redmomoko said: "Merrie. It's not going to fit."

I sighed. "But I used my neatest writing on this envelope!"

So I had to go back downstairs to the reused envelope pile and find one that didn't look like a reuse and was bigger. And of course what I found was way bigger (Jiffy #7), and had to be doubled over and taped to heck and back.

And the writing on it is only my second-neatest.

I have The Hat on.

The power went out at 3:59.

"Crap," I said. "It's an hour to sunset. What then?"

My husband decided avoid this question by taking a nap.

I decided to clean kerosene lamps, shower while the water was still hot and there was enough light coming into the bathroom to shower by, dig out candles, and see if I could light the oven without power. (Answer: no, but I didn't try very hard. Stove, yes, however. Verdict: pilotless gas range is annoying in a power outage.)

As I was fiddling with the lamp next to the bed, my husband muttered, "THIS is the thing you're the ant about."

I read until sunlight failed me, and listened to audio books as long as I could stand staring at nothing while doing so. In other words, I filled about ten of the remaining twenty minutes of daylight.

I crawled into bed next to my husband at 5:00. "I'm bored, so you get me."

Heavy sighs from him and the cats I displaced.

At 5:03 the power came back on. "Seven minutes 'til sunset!" Dann said.

I bounced out of bed. "My life has meaning again!"

~fin~

That I do not have one normal second toe and one freakishly long second toe.

I have one normal big toe that is longer than my second toe--and one stubby big toe that is the same size as my second toe.

My whole world has turned upside down. I stared at my toes in the shower yesterday for like ten minutes.

So, I'm at the grocery store this morning (and my fingers always, always try to type "grocery story," but I assure you, it's just a Meijer), and I buy tomatoes, like one does, even though one hates tomatoes, because there are certain husbands that like them and because there are certain things that even one who hates tomatoes needs them to be in, like guacamole.

Not that I buy avocados while I'm at the story store.

I don't like the looks of the vine-ripened tomatoes, and by gum, I'm not buying hothouse tomatoes in August, so it's either grape tomatoes (which I almost like, and sometimes eat of my own free will) or this little package of fun mini heirloomy tomatoes in a variety pack, with like a Mr. Stripey kind of thing and some yellow and orange and tiny red tomatoes. The rationale is: "Well, I've never tried THESE tomatoes. These might be magic tomatoes. Like the time I ate a German Pink grown by the Amish with venison and it was the best thing I'd ever eaten."

Because, see, I'm complicated, and I can't just dislike something unilaterally, I guess.

Later, I'm looking for lunch, and I think, "I have some fresh mozzarella that's about to become a lot less fresh." So I envision a tomato-mozzarella-pesto sandwich. Only, the bread is frozen or hiding, and I have pita. Only, I don't have pesto, I have basil. Only, I still don't like tomatoes.

But nonetheless, I fire up the griddle and slice one each of all five varieties of the mini tomatoes I bought today and start frying them. I can't eat them fresh, but I might enjoy them cooked. Might. I throw some white balsamic vinegar in there, too. Towards the end, I throw down purple and spicy globe and sweet basil leaves snipped fresh from the garden on there, and at the last, some of the mozzarella, so it gets a little melty. Then I cram it all into a pita, pop the pita into the toaster oven, and wait.

And when it's done, I eat it. And I don't like it. I like the idea of it, and the cheese is good, and the basil is GREAT, but eck. Tomatoes. I mean, the parts that have tomato juice on them are okay, but the texture of tomatoes is what does me in, and I can't like it.

I look up at Dann at one point and say, "This would be perfect, if I weren't me."

He just shakes his head.

I don't know what he's thinking, but I can guess.

And that was lunch.