Today was a holiday from work, and I am taking the rest of the week off as well, to get some stuff done around the house. I think women have a relationship with their home that men do not. We need to nest. We find it therapeutic to straighten out those drawers that have had things tossed in them for the past 15 years. So while I am doing things this week that are tedious and grim, I expect them to be strangely satisfying.

F goes back to school next weekend, probably on Saturday.

I discovered that Edith Wharton published The Reef in the year between Ethan Frome and The Custom of the Country. This surprises me. Her work is fairly spotty, I have found. I love The Custom of the Country and Ethan Frome, but The Reef sucks. It's like she was trying too hard to mimic Henry James, and only copying the irritating parts of his style. The plot was stupid, too. Maybe she had it stuck away in a drawer somewhere, and brought it out to keep the publisher busy until she had the next novel ready to go.