Susan Senator

Poor Natty. Here he is, saying, “Cake. Want ice cream cake.” I had bought one at Emack and Bolio’s, half vanilla, half mud pie, pink icing, plus a pint of low-carb caramel pecan (for Laura and me, to celebrate Kim’s and Paul’s birthdays. They stopped off here for dinner last night on their way to Cape Cod, where we will soon join them.) and some hot fudge. Natty waited patiently for his cake, but his bowels were not patient; turns out he picked up the stomach virus that had been making the rounds at his camp. Probably his 3 a.m. puking Saturday night should have clued me in, but I’m such an optimist, I thought it was all the excitement from the trip. I should have known; barfing is usually not Nat’s preferred mode of expressing excitement. Animated silly talk is, but his puppet hand had yielded no clues, either. Oh well, the cake was good; yes, I snipped some of it; it is that kind of lovely eating habit of mine that probably contributed to my skyrocketing cholestrol. F***ing Atkins. Well, why blame the fat dead man? He never said it was okay to eat fat, protein, and then pig out on chocolate (the mother lode of carbs).
I have no one but myself to blame, to quote Bob Weir yet again from Mexicali Blues.

I think Ben might be getting it, too. But really, enough of this _ _ _ _.