Happy Post Superbowl (but how can there be happiness after the Superbowl?) where Sundays will now be greeted with the lament, "But why get up, there's no football," and only accepting, perhaps in May, that Sundays as we know and love them won't appear again until the fall. THE FALL! (One never counts pre-season.) Post Superbowl is one big sigh.
Since Favre wasn't in the Superbowl, we had no grand hopes or desires for either team, but hey, New Orleans, why not? Never has the franchise even been to the Superbowl -- Did you all see Drew Brees at the end, holding his son (wearing headphones because of the hysterical New Orleans fans) and there was the sheen of tears in his eyes -- made you all smiley faced and warmly fuzzy.
I'm fifteen pages from the end of The Valcourt Heiress. I have no clue about the final denouement or what happens to the various bad guys and gals, but it'll come, hopefully this week, so I can send the manuscript off and WE CAN GO SKIING, without guilt. I'll let you know what happened next month.
Hey, what's this with the lowest snowfall in history up in Olympics-land? Does anyone know what's going on up there?
Eli and Peyton and Cleo are all hanging now, eating together, occasionally chasing each other without pouffy tails, which is a relief. At this moment, Eli is all stretched out watching me, probably wondering why I'm making these stupid clacking noises when he knows in his heart that it won't result in his getting any treats. Karen, yes, I must tell on her, when he stands right in front of the computer monitor, she has to lure him away with three, no more than three, she swears, little treats.
The cats rule.
Happy Valentine's Day and my yearly box of See's Nuts & Chews. (Oh, force me, force me. "The pain, the pain, William, the pain")
Catherine Coulter
(Who can identify William?)
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