A few years ago I noticed that there seemed to be a new trend developing in the quotes that are placed on the covers of new books. These statements lauding the book and its author had previously come from book critics, spanning the spectrum from the New York Times to the Podunk Plain Dealer. Then, ever so quietly, these descriptions began to include ones from other authors, usually ones who wrote within the same genre. Recently I've picked up several books that contained nothing but other author's comments. Does this mean that the critics' reviews weren't good, or at least not as glowing as the colleagues' commentary? Should we trust another writer's fawning reviews more than a book critic? Were these observations of "EARLY ACCLAIM" as is proclaimed on the dust jacket of the book I'm reading now solicited? Paid for? Coerced? I generally don't pay much heed to these single sentence reviews. Until I see one that declares "This new book by Ms. Thudpuppy is ok, but if you really want to be clinging to the edge of your reading glasses, then try out her last one, which was much more exciting and trashier too." I doubt I'll put much stock in this type of marketing malarky.

Today was spent cleaning out the bedroom that doubles as a home for two old desktop computers that Rebecca chats on - simultaneously - and for my sewing and painting and quilting paraphernalia. There will be much dragging of garbage to the curb on Sunday.

Exercise: Cleaning and clearing and organizing took from 9:30 this morning until 6:00 tonight. That must qualify as exercise.

Books: Started Blessings by Anna Quindlen and knew within the first few pages that I just couldn't slog through this. Picked up about 7 books from the library, including The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown (source of my ranting above).

Music: None.

Movies: None. No TV tonight because the new TV is now hooked up, but sitting on the floor, and only about 10% visible from my viewing location. Going from 20" to 27" with a bright clear picture and good sound is a pleasant change.

Cats: After petting Hercules this morning, and enduring him rubbing his nose and mouth against my arms, I was scratching for an hour afterwards at the resulting hives, despite having scrubbed my skin immediately after he touched me.

Dreams: My dreams are vivid, in color, and usually very story-like. Ambien shuts them down for the most part, at least the part of me that remembers them. Sleeping late this last week or so seems to get beyond that barrier. I've recalled a few, though most have evaporated now into dark fog. In one I was floating in a very warm ocean, that was polluted with black shrimps and other flotsam. I was repulsed by the slimy things in the water, but couldn't get out. Another was at night, in the rain, driving next to a barricade made of folded fire hoses, being stopped by a cop dressed as a firefighter who wanted to give me a ticket for not stopping soon enough when I saw him.