Wow. It is Charles-Ingalls-would-have-to-chip-the-ice-from-the-horse's-nose-cold today. I read Melissa Gilbert's autobiography. not that she was any relation to Charles Ingalls per se, but she did play Half-Pint on T.V. And, hey, I forgot about her whole Tiger Beat with Rob Lowe relationship. And who knew she did drugs on the prairie?

My dad (abrupt subject change) always exchanges some type of acknowledgement with people who drive the same car as he. A lift of the index finger, a small nod. I used to think he knew all these people. Then I thought perhaps that was simply what one did when you spied someone with the same automobile. And then I chalked it up to just another random dad quirk. However, every morning I pass someone who drives the sedan version of the same car I drive. We both even picked the same color. And I'm beginning to think we should start with a finger lift salute or something. Because it seems like we should.

Abrupt subject change again. Mort has discovered "Smells Like Teen Spirit." (You would think I would know whether a song title should be italicized or in quotes, but I don't and I don't really feel like looking it up. We'll just have to deal with my decision to use quotation marks. )Except he does not call it that. He calls it the "Insert 5-year- old making guitar noise riff" song. (And again, can't recall if this is an instance where 5 year old is joined by hyphens or not. Good thing I'm not getting paid to write this.) I like Dave Grohl. Not that I know him, but speaking of Nirvana. Because he seems like he has a quick wit. And who wouldn't feel warmly towards someone that makes you laugh? I wonder if the Foo Fighters ever play Nirvana songs? Probably not.

I know this is not a popular view, but I didn't like Catcher in the Rye. I really really really wanted to. Who wouldn't want to love a book by someone who popularized the name Zooey? But I didn't love it. Or like it. I read it five or six times to make certain I wasn't missing something or that it wouldn't grow on me. I thought Holden was a bit of a whiny-pants ass. Along the train of thought of classics, I thought I would hate the The Sun Also Rises just because Hemingway was so heavily lauded. But that I ended-up really liking. We studied it in a class in college, and I was the only one who liked it. Everyone else thought Jake and co. were a bunch of self-indulgent drunk asshats. I guess it just goes to show that you like what you like and that's that. Or there's no accounting for taste. Or some other cliche. A stitch in time saves nine?

I read an article last night about a woman who was a reluctant stepmother. It musty have been fantastically written, because the author was a bit horrifying.(She flung cottage cheese in anger at her two-year-old stepson because he wanted Daddy to open it, not her.) And yet I found her to be sympathetic. And the only way that is possible is that she wrote so well that I found her more appealing than the helpless child. Interesting.

Neti-pot time.