P.S.

Never got an email from the boy regarding basketball. I'm not upset. I have 150 million things to do in preparation for Easter Dinner (once again-- being held at my house!), and I think mopping the floor will bring me pleasure equal to or greater than I would have experienced spending an evening watching gangly men run back and forth and fake being fouled. Basketball is so ridiculous that way. In the mean time, I'm grateful for the friends I do have, and having not added a new one this week will likely not make much of a difference in the long run.
PPS. Speaking of earlier gratitude, I meant to thank those of you who read my ramblings, faithfully or otherwise. Art can't exist in a vacuum, and one writes better when she imagines she is speaking to someone other than herself. Or so says the character of Amelia Peabody.