Dinner at Limon last Friday was awesome. We feasted, we chatted, we lingered. Who knew Peruvian fusion was my favorite food? The truffle mac & cheese was just as tasty as we remembered, and the scallops and foie gras? "OMG so delicious" just about covers it. (Alas, though they apologized to us for the problems on Wednesday night, they didn't shower us with free stuff. Sigh. It was great anyway.) Amelia said River was a joy while she watched him, too. (And that night he slept until 6 a.m. What a good baby!)

The weekend was nice. On Saturday we took a load of books to Half Price to sell, then ambled around the Berkeley Farmer's Market. River is finally big enough to ride in the baby bjorn facing outward, which makes all the difference. He loves it! And everyone loves him. On Sunday I gave Heather a couple of hours to get some writing and packing done, taking River with me for breakfast (eaten one-handed while holding him up with the other hand, so he could look around) and a stroll through the Oakland Rose Garden (which he slept through, allowing me some time to start reading Stephen King's Duma Key). And after he went to bed on Sunday night, Heather and I played a little World of Warcraft with our friend D., who just got the game. So much fun! (Even though I only wrote about 500 words total all weekend, and none of it fiction. I'm still on track with my required word count for (Not)Grift Sense, but only barely. I need to get back in the saddle.)

How strange. I just came across a spam blog that includes a chunk of text about Poison Sleep... but it appears to be the publisher's description, run through a machine translator, and then translated back into English. Or something. It's... interesting:

The intense blackamoor of the magical underworld is backwards and badder than ever. Someone wants Marla Mason dead. Usually that's not news. As honcho necromancer of Felport, someone always wants her dead. But this instance she's the direct of a baulk murderer who specializes in ending his victims over days, months, or modify years. Not to name a occult knife-wielding dolphin in black who pops up in the most unheralded places. To attain matters worse, an patient has busted discover of the Blackwing Institute for criminally unstable sorcerers—a harassed knowledge who crapper literally reweave the artifact of actuality to correct her possess harmful past. With her wisecracking relation Rondeau reluctantly in tow, Marla teams up with a "love-talker" whose chanceful sexy spells not modify she crapper resist. Together they're intelligent the apace transforming streets of Felport for a blackamoor who's embellish the Typhoid Jewess of nightmares, infecting everything—and everyone—she touches with a confusion worsened than modification itself.

How the hell does "Typhoid Mary" become "Typhoid Jewess"? And I really should write a book about an occult knife-wielding dolphin in black who pops up in the most unheralded places. "The artifact of actuality" is actually a rather potent phrase, though, and I may use it sometime.