I have nothing of serious interest to report, except that I'm okay. And maybe that's worth saying. Once I stablized last week (it actually took a few days to feel normal again) I had a week like many other weeks: I went to my friend Erin's house in Queens to play cards Wednesday;
spent Thursday evening with the remote, shuffling from Ugly Betty to The Office to Grey's Anatomy to Thirty Rock, wondering why the only shows I watch are packed into a two-hour time block;
had dinner with friends, saw a really cute new Spanish film, then hung around in the village drinking expensive tea on Friday;
and Saturday evening, Mr. Ben and I had pizza under the Brooklyn Bridge with his dad and his stepmom, and then listened to Barge Music from the last four seats available -- lined up on the side of the stage. I had a perfect, and perfectly surreal, view of the inside of the grand piano.
Sunday I did laundry, errands, cooked.
At no point did I mourn Anna Nicole Smith. At no point did I feel a twinge of satisfaction that I least I was demonstrably less crazy than the Astronut with the diaper and the pepper spray. I did however appreciate everyone's good wishes, and do. It's nice to feel supporting when you start taking steps.