At some point over the past week, I discovered The New Yorker. I've known about it forever: it's that magazine pretentious people like to read. The one with the long, pretentious articles! Er... Naturally, I like it quite a lot. It's all the stuff I liked from The New York Times, only expanded. And since I will no longer read The New York Times, lest my clicks contribute in the tiniest way to its well-being... Sigh. I like it as a paper, even if I generally disagreed with its slant on Israel. But during the recent war (still feels weird calling it a war, but Gosh, that's what it was [is?]), The Times crossed a line, so I drew one. Still, as much as I like The Wall Street Journal, I felt like I was missing out. Enter The New Yorker. Luckily, the war is over enough that their news section hasn't offended me today. (Today being the first day I had the courage to check their news section.)
In more personal news, when I came to pick up BSM from daycare today, he immediately dropped his post-nap tea biscuit and knocked over his bottle, holding out his arms to be picked up. I said hello to BSM and asked him where his cookie was. The only response I got was his continued signalling asking to be picked up. So I asked "?איפה העוגיה" BSM immediately scooted around, located and grabbed his dropped tea biscuit, then scooted back to his 'pick me up' position. The boy is so clever. The boy is so cute. The mother needs to work on the boy's English comprehension skills.
No comments:
Post a Comment