Margaret and I gave one another a copy of Paula Poundstone’s book, There’s Nothing in This Book That I Meant to Say for Christmas. She tickles us when she appears on Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, and we went to see her stand-up show last New Year’s Eve.

I was reading from it last night when Pippa trundled into the room. Pip glanced down at the cover of Poundstone’s book, then up at me.

“Dad, when your write your next book” — and I register it as something of a triumph that a teenaged daughter considers it probable that her doddering dad will actually achieve anything ever again — “I think it would be better if you don’t make the cover a picture of you wearing a pink pin-striped suit with your shirt untucked.”

OK, got it. Thanks, sweetheart.

Speaking of books and Pippa, she’s furthering my subversive effort to corrupt the youth of America. She decided she’d sound out her home-school book club relative to reading David Weinberger’s My 100 Million Dollar Secret. I think that’s a great idea; they’d be a terrific, sophisticated audience for the book. You’d probably like it, too.

Jane said:

Yes… please be sure to tuck in your shirt, dear.



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