Sigh. Do I even need to say it? Do I even need to type the words? Isn't the simple fact that I'm posting this at 6 o'clock on Sunday night enough to tell you what's going on -- or, rather, what isn't going on?

No baby yet. In spite of the walking, the spicy foods, the evening primrose oil, in spite of all of your helpful suggestions, and our frequent entreaties, no baby yet.

Meanwhile, MSNBC's Weblog Central did a round-up of writers' weblogs, and gave this site a very nice mention. Except now I worry I've got people coming here to find out about the writing life, and fiction versus diary entries and, you know, literature, and instead it's just me bitching about my six-days-overdue Bun.

I can't even really talk about good books I've read lately because it's been hard to focus. I devouted Amanda Hesser's COOKING FOR MR. LATTE and had an extended fantasy about cooking the duck with ginger and sherry that takes two days to prepare -- a fantasy because at this point I'm kind of hoping I don't have two days. And I've got THE DIRTY GIRLS SOCIAL CLUB packed in my suitcase to read in the hospital, even though I'm not sure whether reading in the hospital is a total fantasy because I'll be so preoccupied and tired.

And I ordered a whole slew of books to arrive after the Bun does -- Scott Spencer's A SHIP MADE OF PAPER, Meg Wolitzer's THE WIFE, Jeffrey Eugenides' MIDDLESEX, which I've been meaning to read forever. We'll see how that goes.