Swarthmore in spring

At the Spring Ball, I drifted from one pleasant conversation to the next, discussing Sicherman dice and academic job searches, House slash and Chatlist angst. I did not dance a single dance, excepting one waltz with adfamiliares, as I was tired and headachy—though that did not derail my good mood. There were many people there whom I rarely see, and I did not complain of a chance to chat with them. MyS's daughter Laura is ever so precocious, verbal, and self-aware, though she is merely 3 (and a half). "Sometimes I want attention," she said, "and I jump on my parents' backs!"

At the end of the night, ajacs handed me a baby monitor and told me to listen for cries and other unhappy noises. The other end was attached to the pianist's baby—or so I was told. While ajacs went off and waltzed, I stood there with the baby monitor dutifully pressed to my ear, quite unaware that the other end had already been turned off and I was listening to stray radio waves. My befuddled expression, when the monitor started emitting noises of alarm—unintelligible, but clearly not baby-generated—apparently provided endless amusement to ajacs and the pianist's wife, who were hiding somewhere and making noises into the baby monitor. Ho ho ho.

This has, so far, been a trip with neither drama nor bliss, which suits me fine. I got a cheese steak and a slice at 'Nato's, played some Name Game and St. Petersburg in Greylock, rolled around with ajacs's enthusiastically welcoming puppy. Tomorrow I hope to see the people I missed seeing today, and return to Saratoga quite serenely refreshed.