Temple, at least the area I visited yesterday, seemed to have many more amenities than when I was there twelve years ago. My grad department's building, however, remained butt-ugly, as did the one where Chip works, across the way. The two buildings are very tall but, well, cement. And butt-ugly. There is now a nice row of shops tucked away before you get to Broad Street, which I didn't go into, but might check out some other time.
Lunch was fun, with one more person, a poetry editor, joining the three of us writers, and after I had expounded my version of the "crack" plot theory (The Black Stallion Revolts was a key element) and a brief detour into T.S. Eliot (poetry crack!), we moved onto various issues with the distribution of books and the bad things that can happen if one's book arrives at the big store but never makes it onto the shelves before being returned, or if one's book makes it into the print Books in Print but through electronic error never makes it into the electronic Books in Print, and etc..
Following that, I met up with L. at the Naked Chocolate Cafe, did an errand with her, then went to pick up Mademoiselle Toddler. The three of us then had pedicures.
"I might get purple. oracne, what color do you want?"
"[Mademoiseille], what color do you want?" "I'm going to pick when we get to the toenail store."
For the record, she chose neon orange for the left foot and bright turquoise for the right foot, and the pedicurist, much enchanted, decorated her big toes with tiny, tiny flowers. She kept up a running stream of questions throughout all three pedicures: "What is she doing? Why? What is she doing now? Why?" I expire of cuteness.
Then on to another friend's house to pick up her and her toddler, whom I will refer to as "Daredevil" because she is, and thence to the park. I sat on the bronze turtle! Oh, yeah, and the kids played, too.
Then out for pizza. Mademoiselle began to sing, with dubious success, "JOHN Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt...LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...JOHN Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt...LA LA LA LA LA LA LA," [losing a fair number of syllables, as you might imagine] and I asked, "Does John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt eat pizza?" Daredevil turned around in her mad dashing and said, firmly, "NO." "What does he eat?" "I don't know." "Maybe noodles?" Mademoiselle: "Like ME!"
Today I work for a few hours, then off to the final dress rehearsal at 2 pm.