The last couple of days at work have been kah-razy, man, kah-razy. Now I’m home again, and I spent the entire drive home thinking about to relax. My sweetie is making homemade sauce. I thought about what to listen to — Louis Armstrong‘s "Skokiaan" (also known as "that song from the end of Slacker", and one of my all-time favorite cheer-up songs) or Zumpano or the Pixies B-sides compilation on 4AD that I finally picked up. Something I find soothing. And a pot of tea, definitely tea. And something to read; I was thinking about starting Zilpha Keatley Snyder‘s The Egypt Game. I wanted to aim for the intellectual equivelant of nursery food, described by Jane and Michael Stern in Square Meals as food "that cannot fail to ease even the grumpiest crosspatch." No cilantro, nothing garlicky, no garam masala. I want to turn my brain off. But I discovered via Kathryn "the Oracle" Yu that Philip Pullman has been nominated for the Booker Prize. Maybe children’s books are an adult pleasure now. I’m thrilled for Pullman, but also irrationally peeved. Garlic and cilantro are fine, but tonight? Velveeta and buttered noodles, please. None