Father’s Day

There is nothing, just nothing, better than being awakened by two princesses, fully dressed in tutus, tights, and tiaras, proclaiming, “Thanks for making the rent!” (Okay, I admit I requested that particular greeting . . . but still, I got it.) Presents in bed. Hannah saying, “Wait’ll you see this one! You’re gonna scream like a woman!” (It was The Beatles Anthology, so quite right she was). Lovely abundance of cards and a painted rock paperweight adorned with felt so it won’t scratch my desk (it occurred to me looking at a colleague’s profusion of hockey-puck paperweights: there is no breeze in our tightly sealed green building). And since I explained that I dislike the entire concept of breakfast in bed, instead my breakfast was served in a bed — a heaping bowl of grape nuts, wheat germ and blueberries, all nestled down in a bed-shaped aluminum tin. All this and “Buffy” season three, too!