my mind is focusing on a bunch of tiny details , ricocheting from one to the other like a ping-pong ball : the embroidered sign above the sink that says martha stewart does not live here ; the snapshots posted on the refrigerator , of kent and his family on the beach somewhere , of relatives i do n't know , of old postcards from paris , morocco , san francisco ; rows of mugs displayed behind the glass cabinets , with slogans on them like caffeine or bust and it 's tea time .