Word is, it's hot. All over the land, tempers and tweets are pulsing while the US turns into an enormous kiln. But my family and I are removed from all that, eerily, by a persistent fog that keeps things cool, damp, and inscrutable.
The fog is extremely localized. Drive five miles north, and the sun shines balefully down. But here, everything is shrouded, and horizons are gone. We are not of this earth anymore, my child. We are Fog People, groping for landmarks, touchstones, any frame of reference. We are ensconced in the ether, with but a small weatheradio and three random TV channels--NBC, Qubo, and ion--to remind us that other people exist, and that America's Got A Severely Depleted Reservoir Of What Some Might Consider Talent.
We drove home from dinner last night and had to avoid a peacock that wouldn't move from the middle of the road. TwoBert has suddenly decided he likes avocado. The surrealism is unsettling.
About the only things I know about the next several weeks are these:
- I'm driving to New York (and its adorable little poo problem) on Sunday;
- I'm flying to BlogHer11 from Detroit on August 4;
- I'm visiting the Dad 2.0 Summit site on August 25;
- I have a writing deadline on September 1;
- I've signed an agreement to take up residence in Ann Arbor at some point; and
- TwoBert reallyreallyreally wants a snake for a pet.
Other than that, I have no idea how the rest of the summer will pan out.
Right now, it feels like J.J. Abrams is writing my life. I hope he eventually ties up all these loose plot points.