This is not a novel. It is a collection of very short essays and memories. A novel is a commitment of time and patience. Like a marriage. These are more like going steady with a good friend with a short attention span. Think of it as pointillist writing. A collection such as this is valuable when waiting in line at the DMV, while waiting for your mani/pedi to dry, while waiting period. For anything. The doctor, the dentist. Godot. For that watched pot that is never going to boil. These essays are not even published in chronological order. They are published in alphabetical order. They are a crazy quilt of wit and heartbreak written by an old woman who is rather a crazy quilt herself. Her name is Paula Walborsky.
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