Eric is still sick. It's pretty heartbreaking. He's fine for a few minutes, then he starts to cry for no apparent reason. This is coupled with the fact that he's figured out that he's a lot shorter than us. His new thing is to stand by the bookshelf and point to all the stuff on the high shelves that he can't reach *for a reason*. And then he cries when we won't give him the book, the DVD, the set of steak-knives, steaming-hot branding-irons, or whatever is up there.

I left work today at two to hang out with him so Rich could work on his jobsearch. But it turned out that Eric had gone down for a second nap right as I got home, so I had two hours to read. I suppose I should have done my laundry, but I was really into my book. I just finished a more recent book by Mike Gayle called "Dinner for Two." It's much better than the one I finished yesterday or the day before. Have I outgrown books about twenty-something angst? How can this be? I love chick-lit and most of it is about twenty-something angst! I'll have to ruminate on that for a while. I guess I love reading about 20 Something angst, when it's well written. I've been reading a lot of first novels lately, and that may be part of the problem.

Rich and I are watching House Hunters. For some reason we find people looking for starter homes in Southern California fascinating. I have decided not to over analyze this because I'm afraid the answer will be too disturbing to contemplate. This guy had a pot bellied pig for a pet. Not a little miniature one, but a great big hairy pig. After he got his house, he talked about finding a wife. Dude, you need to get rid of your giant pig before any self respecting woman is going NEAR you. I mean women like pancakes and bacon in bed, not running around the frigging back yard.

Other than that, I've mostly been watching the death tolls rise in Asia and feeling sad for the parents and the children.