Sometimes Sunday

It is, sometimes, nice to get tipsy. I like to shower and don comfy yet highbrow (by which I simply mean matching) PJs, make a nice dinner, open a nice bottle, look forward to a good show, usually Friday's Real Time but otherwise an anticipated documentary, a recent Mad Men or a previously vetted and hilarious film like The Hangover (Part I only). Should tipsiness result during such an evening, I can generally be assured a happy, engaged night. Such was definitely the case on this Sunday as we, following a delicious dinner, launched huzzahs and retorts towards Bill's guests.

• Is Julia Reed not one of the more mannish women ever?
• Doesn't Joshua Green sort of remind you of Ron Weasley, all grown up?
• Does Bob Herbert ever age much?
• Does Michael Pollan ever lose the smile and go ape?

Some of these queries are infinitely more answerable than others, yet all are pleasing questions in the sense that you can determine or ponder the answers whilst remaining agreeable and, unless Amy Holmes/PJ O'Rourke/John Fund/additional, condescending WSJ a-holes are present and thus intrude upon your evening musings, happily engaged in your night.

For dinner I made a wild rice-peach-avocado salad and an oven-roasted Pacific cod with capers/kalamatas/sun-dried tomatoes and basil, both of which I served alongside the leftover veggie braise from lunch and a lurvely red blend from CA, the unfortunately named àMaurice. All wonderful, and oh those pies for dessert. Marvelous!

Have decided to ignore cold, on tap for dinner

I am, at this point, so flipping annoyed with my snorting and other cold manifestations that I have decided to pretend it doesn't exist. To the best of my abilities. I fully intend to have a glass of cold white tonight as we will be enjoying fresh Pacific cod and a fennel/Meyer lemon/green olive/garlic dish I'm currently concocting in my head. Don't these ingredients look lovely?!

As I believe I mentioned, Jack's school called midday; he felt sick and wanted me to come. I hurried over, and within five minutes of picking him felt sure he was half-faking. He is totally pooped, this is true, and doesn't have school until next Monday, so I didn't much mind, but I must say that at this point I'm feeling a little talked out as he and Ol have NOT been meek ones this afternoon. PLEASE GO TO BED. I swear to you that if I hear any from a handful of words (all scatological in nature, really), I'm going to start spinning like the Tasmanian devil. Oh, and no they're trying to pick each other's noses. Jesus. What happened to the overabundance of knock-knock jokes? At this point, I might accept those back.