I've been dwelling lately on the three Rs. You know, running, roaches, and 'riting. Two of these are not new obsessions, and I wish the third one was not. Casa de Suzanne y Husband has been, for the last two weeks, down to one roach sighting. This may or may not be attributable to the exterminator who came and squirted chemicals directly onto the wood floor, which I am not going to lie, I am assuming is a chemical and not jizz. The streaks and splotches were a milky white. I was afraid to do anything about them for a while, thinking that maybe the chemicals needed to hang around to make the roaches go away, but then I realized that I would walk on them in my bare feet when it was dark. The idea of exterminating chemicals (or jizz) seeping into my system through the soles of my feet bothered me, so I finally used some paper towels and water, to remove the whatever-it-is.

That said, last Sunday we came home from a delightful weekend in Massachusetts, and there was a dead roach. Nothing says welcome home like a dead roach does. Then this Monday morning, Husband informed me that he terminated the life of a roach by the bathroom sink. Nothing says it is going to be a great week like a live roach in the bathroom!

Maybe all of the brain power I am dedicating to my loathing of roaches and paranoid fears that they will crawl into bed with me at night is the reason that the other Rs have been somewhat lacking. I decided in late July that I needed a vacation from my novel, so no writing has been done. However, I recently had some very helpful chats with friends whose reading tastes I admire. These conversations went something like, "So, let's say hypothetically you were reading a book set in Warsaw in the 1930s. If the main character's girlfriend went to Palestine, do you need me to tell you that he's sad, or can I just show it by having him nearly cut off his fingers at work (he's a butcher) and going to bars every night to get wasted?" (Answer: Must also tell a little bit.)

The running, which in the past has often led me to great ideas for the book, also has not been so good. First, it is kind of hot. I am a finicky runner. I don't like running if the sun is out and it is warmer than 60 degrees; if it is humid; and/or the park is full of fucking assholes riding bikes going the wrong direction in the lane clearly set aside for pedestrians. All three conditions have unfortunately been present. Perhaps this is why the writing ideas are not flowing - I'm too busy thinking about grabbing a stick and jamming it into the spokes of said fucking asshole bikers. I worry a bit about my sociopathic response. Hence, the runs are not relaxing, either. On the other hand, I had two great treadmill runs this week, so I can't really complain.