David Bowie, Alan Rickman... the other 69-year-old male British entertainer is Tim Curry. Take care, Mr. Curry.
The spurt of energy Laston gets on the day after his chemo treatment can be very useful. My kitchen is pretty clean right now, even down to the floor.
I love it when a throw-it-together in the kitchen does an A-Team. I used 3 lbs of chicken breast, six cups of water, a cup of barley, a packet of Just Juice marinade, and a can of mushrooms (and a slow cooker) and now we have some pretty good stew. Needs salt (unlike anything else I have ever cooked, ever).
I in no way endorse nearly anything Carly Fiorina has to say. Except that this morning, I heard an interview with her on NPR where she opined that "Donald Trump is the Kim Kardashian of American politics." I think that's pretty accurate; it's like he's the reality TV candidate, the train-wreck we can't stop watching. So yes, I agree with Fiorina on something. Mark the date.
Arg - another evening of Lizzy Has to do Word Work. She doesn't need help as much as she needs a traffic cop; it's all redirect-redirect-redirect.
Maybe the older girls and I will watch Galaxy Quest this weekend in honor of Alan Rickman. They're too young for Die Hard, and I don't want the darkness of either Harry Potter or Robin Hood Prince of Thieves.
The pregnancy parallels get more and more frequent. Laston is craving - of all things - Jell-O parfaits, and his doctor prescribed him a drug intended for morning sickness. Yes, we know about marijuana, and no, ginger ale is working fine for now.
I went to my jury duty this morning. I watched the How to be a Good Citizen video, read the pamphlet, and made desultory conversation with my fellow potential jurors for two hours (and read a book; good thing I had been warned). Then they dismissed all of us because they didn't need us today. This is apparently not uncommon. I have to call again tonight after five to see if they may need me tomorrow.
That's all I've got at the moment.