Have perhaps been reading too much Alice Munro as of late. This is due to the fact that instead of buying the book for this comedy of a grad class (an anthology), I checked out most of the novellas from the library (and borrowed others--thanks, Stephanie--and owned others already), but can't remember which one we're actually supposed to read for class. Consequently, I have overdosed on her stories; having read about six of them in this library book. I do like Alice Munro though her stories are somewhat dense with disgruntled Canadians. She always seems to have an interesting secret at the heart of each piece. A murder, a mistress, a cutting betrayal from a loved one. But the drama is muted, not sensational and is more interesting this way. Anyway, a lot of her characters are looking back on their lives or the narrator is a child trying to puzzle out the behavior of adults. This of course made me think of myself (what doesn't?) and about the kids who live in the house behind mine and how they sometimes see me, this slightly friendly single woman who appears every morning in various stages of night clothes to pour cheap cat food into plastic bowls for every cat in South Philadelphia. And what does this tell them about the world? That not everyone gets married, that not every woman cooks dinner (very seldom will they glimpse me toiling over a meal in the kitchen window), that not every adult puts on all of her clothes before stepping outside.