OK, I admit to a wholy inappropriate crush on Neighbor Aber from Mr Rogers. Almost as disturbing as my lust for Anthony Wiggle. But right now Chuck's strolling around singing to himself, and I feel a little squeamish. I knew he was just a bit too clean-cut for me.
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I just had a horrifying mommy-moment while trying to explain to my two-year-old how the TV schedule works (i.e. we can only watch the Teletubbies when the Teletubbies are on). I said, "Jude man, when Barney is over, the Teletubbies will be on and we will turn the television back on to watch them." Simon came over to be appropriately consoling and big brotherly, and he put his arm around Jude's shoulders and said solemnly, "Jude, the television is *not* magic." Whereupon Jude begin to wail heartbrokenly. And I *laughed.* Rotten Mama. That's what my screen name should be - RottenMama.
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Here is my new favorite way to waste time after I hit Salon, the news, the weather, and various other blogs I check regularly:
The Comics Curmudgeon
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I finished the Denise Mina, and it was...really good. The ending did not totally blow me away, but close. I will definitely check out other Mina books. And then I started John Searles' "unputdownable thriller", Strange But True. I feel like I took some sort of weirdo mind/reality-altering pharmaceutical cocktail (I mean different than my usual one) before embarking on this week's reading. First the Mina, now the Searles - nothing is what it seems in either of these books. My head hurts. So the antidote is The Moor, Laurie King's 4th Mary Russell mystery. The Hound of the Baskervilles has nothing on neurotic househusbands and women pregnant with dead men's babies.
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