I can tell already that it’s going to be a lazy Sunday, the kind where I stay in my pajamas most of the morning and a good portion of the afternoon.  I’m okay with that.  I woke up and made biscuits, and strawberry coconut popsicles, too.  (As an aside, that link goes to one of my favorite baking sites.  Her pictures are scrumptious, and I’ve yet to try a recipe from her that didn’t work.)

Today is also a closing tabs sort of day, which means you get a couple of little snippets of things that have been going on rather than a single topic blog post.

Tuesday,  A and I went to go see Neil Gaiman reading from his new book, The Ocean at the End of the Land.  It seems like a wonderfully magical, creepy, utterly Mr. Neil type of book.  I’m holding onto it until I have the time to read it with the attention it deserves, rather than in snatches on the subway.  It’s the kind of book I want to dive into and not come up for air until I’ve turned the final page.

The reading was wonderful, and Neil brought Amanda Palmer out to play a song and ask him questions.  Every time I see the two of them together, I’m struck by how palpable a thing their love for each other is.  Not in an on-stage-for-the-fans kind of way, but in a genuinely fascinated with each other kind of way.  (By the by, if you’re interested in ART and the making of ART, Amanda’s blog about the book is worth reading.  Some great thoughts in there about the way we incorporate ourselves into our art.) 

At the end of the night, Neil signed books, and I asked him if, since I’d rather run out of books for him to sign, he’d sign my back instead.  He very sweetly said yes.

Now that it’s gotten warm, A and I have been spending most of our time out in the backyard.  I’m still in a bit of shock that we now own a house, in New York City, with a backyard large enough for a grill and patio furniture and a garden.  A and I do most of our cooking out there.  Everything from pizza to burgers to pork shoulder to smoked duck.  With no AC in the house, being able to cook outside makes such  difference.

The garden’s done up in milk crates, a la Riverpark Farm.  We have corn, squash, tomatoes, bell peppers, hot peppers, peas, lettuce, arugula, radish, broccoli, basil, parsley…  The squash are in full blossom, and the peas and tomatoes are starting to flower as well.  It’s the first time I’ve grown my own food, and there’s something magical about watching it grow.

Finally, I’ve been seeing a great deal of talk online recently about the fact that there is a group of men out there who are apparently still living in some 1960’s, Mad Men era world where it’s okay to publicly evaluate women based on physical characteristics and otherwise treat women as less than equal.  (I’m not going to put up links – if you’re curious just search Google for the SFWA debacle or the Kickstarter rape-book incident.)  If you’ve been following my blog, then you probably already have a good idea of my views on the subject.  Which is why I wasn’t going to post on the subject.   Then I saw something on the subway the other day that was simply too incredible not to share.

It’s morning, and the 5 train is packed, standing room only, so I’m standing and reading my book and generally ignoring everyone else around me.  As you do on the subway.  Then I hear a kid sounding out letters, like he’s learning to read.  Cute.  So I look over, and this adorable five year old is sitting on his dad’s lap, reading from dad’s magazine.  Super cute.  Then I realize there’s a large picture of a mostly naked woman taking up a good chunk of the page, and the kid is reading the headline from a sex advice column.  Yeah, you read that right.  The phrase the kid has been laboriously sounding out for the last five minutes is “blow it”.

I didn’t say anything.  I wanted to, but didn’t even know where to start.  Dude, that’s creepy?  Dude, totally inappropriate for a kid? For a public place?  Does your son’s mother know what he’s reading?  Have you considered what you’re teaching your son about the way he should be treating women?

You see my dilemma.  Plus, who wants to get into an argument with the creepy guy teaching his kid to read from Playboy on the subway at early o’clock in the morning?  Suffice it to say, I feel kind of sorry for the kid, who will probably turn out to be the kind of guy who can’t ever get a date and doesn’t have a clue why.

On that note, I’m heading out to the garden.  In my pj’s.