It is a braless, serene Sunday, with all the men in my life dozing in different corners of the house. Tenzing has found a comfortable, shady spot in the reading room; Jeff is belly-down, snores-up in the master bedroom; and Edmund, having despaired of actually being helpful to me, has bathed himself to sleep on top of the guest bed, cheerfully dousing the dark green comforter with loose bits of off-white belly fur.

Edmund may not have been the brightest kitty in his litter, but he knows, with the intrinsic absolutism of feline knowledge, that my setting up the ironing board and scattering sewing implements on the bed means that I will, without a doubt, return.All he has to do is lie on top of the fabric and wait.

As soon as the dryer finishes drying the rest of the fabric I bought, I'll begin.

What, you don't believe the entry title? Silly you. I can't imagine why, what with my propensity for choosing arcane and random titles for my entries over the past three years. Nevertheless, let me reassure you; indeed, I speak truth, for tonight I created the technicolor feline pajamas of doom.

Well, okay, actually they're just technicolor feline flannel pajamas. Adam added the "(of doom)."

Three a.m. found me outside, talking quietly into a cell phone while the cicadas traded stories with the crickets about the end of summer. Beneath me, the concrete gathered chill from the still, silent air, as clouds played peekaboo with a gibbous moon.

"Where do you intend to go with your dirty dress?"
- Jimmy Eat World

I always wondered what might make me change my mind and begin using private entries on domesticat. Now I know. Given a couple of days past the actual incident, I'm calmer than I was before, but the root of the matter still makes me sad.

Time to issue some belated congratulations to Kat and Sean, as Saturday was their wedding day... (Click photo to see larger version.)

I'd love to tell you where it began, but the truth is that I don't remember. Instead, I have to choose a beginning point, arbitrary though it is, and begin from there.

The speed limit on the Cutoff was 40, but anyone with half a brain knew that the cops never policed that section of road, because there was no place for them to park, and even if there was, Bauxite didn't have cops anyway. The descent to the paved-over area where the railroad track used to be was one such that if you hit it at just the right speed, your car wouldn't go airborne, but you would.