Soup and Handbaskets

Maisie comes home on Satuday, and tomorrow I'm heading into the city to meet up with a friend of a friend, here on business from India. I felt a little bad that I didn't invite her to stay here with us, but, well, I didn't. She's the co-author of a book that criticizes the international adoption industry and its impact on kids and vulnerable women, especially. I'm right there; I'm a convert, as you know. But when you look at me, before you talk to me, I'm just a white woman with an adopted brown kid at my side, and that's the scene she rejects. So I'll be watched, and so will Liam, and I guess I could leave Liam here with someone but I'm sort of into truth these days--to baring it, to just being, without apology. Isn't life just soupy? Cheesy oniony soupy?

I just pitched a story to a magazine about nontraditional families in small towns--gay, single, multigenerational, adoptive (well, the latter's getting mighty mainstream, I know). They accepted. Now I have to write it. I should be two people: the one who opens the doors and the one who walks through.

Lester came back today to fix a fitting on the barn. It was a little high up and heavy, so he brought along some help: his 92-YR OLD BROTHER! I'm going to hell.