The Same Thing Happens Every Morning.

Usually.

A quick aside; since I know spicy Cuban Mo is horrified by my carpooling, I'm going to distract her with this:



Oooo...pretty yarn.... Btw, I got this image from a lovely blog: http://needled.wordpress.com/page/23/ You know, in case one wanted to go see pretty knitting pictures rather than read what I've typed here.

No, this has nothing to do with today's yammering. I just thought it was easier than saying, "Look! Something sparkly!"

Anyway. Morning routine.

Almost every workday morning, Roommate will get up around 0515. I know. Even the Omnipotent Comedian is still asleep. But she will get up, cross the hall and open the door to my room, releasing the terrier to join the beagles. They will all go outside and do their business. Then she will let them back inside and they will rush my bedroom like an offensive line of football players at a quarterback. After leaping up on my bed, the dogs will receive their good-job cookie. Roommate will leave, shutting the door behind her. Then there's the obligatory settling in period.

Tuppence Marie will recline against a pillow, near my head, like the Queen of Sheba she is. Maddie, the eleven year old beagle, will press herself to my side or back, depending on my position, so long as she is as close as caninely possible to a body. Bailey the Beagle Boy [Excuse me, are those Beagle Boy jeans you're wearing? We thought so.] will nose his way under the covers and find bare flesh, against which he will press his cold and wet feet and nose. A faint hissing sound and a yowl from owner of flesh often accompanies this move. Then all four of us get an extra 20-30 minutes of sleep while Roommate gets ready for the day.

After far too little time, Roommate will open the bedroom door again and announce breakfast. For the dogs. In the ensuing melee, absolutely no concern for the owner of the bed is shown by the canine companions as they scramble to the kitchen, kicking and stepping on the non-dog member of the party. Muffled and unintelligible moaning/grousing is often heard.

Five to fifteen minutes later, Roommate will employ secondary measures to get me up. These include yelling, a shrieking teakettle, crowbars and small volumes of TNT. I drag myself out of my bed, assemble myself to the best of my ability and get to the car. There, my purse, my computer bag and a travel cup of tea wait for me. This is what usually happens.

This morning, however, was a little different. Roommate...fell back asleep.

Fortunately, Tuppence Marie set an alarm on her Blackberry.

Goals

We all have goals, don't we, dearest? I can usually be supportive of other people's goals, but now and again, I resent the aspirations of inanimate objects.

Volvo had the goal of scaring the holy living crap out of me this week and oh, my, did he succeed! Yay. Volvo! Live the dream, baby! Volvo spent the night at the repair shop and after spending the day playing with the boys, was given a clean bill of health. Yup. A mere $130 later, all the lights on Volvo's dash were turned off and I was called to come and pick him up.

Say it with me...WHEW! The mechanic couldn't get the dash warning lights to come on again, so he told me to drive the car around and bring it in immediately if the scary Transmission Arrow of Death came back. I thanked him. I went to my car. I drove Volvo back to work. I handed over the keys to Roommate to drive home, as we carpool to work, so she had a way to get home.

Carpooling this morning meant walking to work together, btw. Normally, Roommate starts work at 0630, so I drive in every morning 90 minutes earlier than I need to be at the lab. Because we carpool. We're taking one car off the road. We're saving on gas and reducing emissions. It's the right thing to do. You know, if you continue to smirk like that, your face is going to freeze that way.

Anyway. As I was trudging in with her this morning, I woke up enough to ask, "Why am I walking in with you this early? Since we're not driving, I could have walked in later."

"So you can spend time with me."

"Oh, yes," I replied. "I do enjoy that. But why am I walking in with you this early?"

I got The Look. [No, we're not a couple. I've gone over this already. Pay attention.]

Moving on. I gave the keys to Volvo, newly returned to my bosom, to Roommate. And Roommate drove Volvo home. And then Roommate called.

"The lights are back on."



Different lights. Not the scary Transmission Arrow of Death, but still. Sigh. Evidently, Volvo's new goal is to play with the mechanics again.

I resent this nearly as much as my underwear's goal of becoming a thong. Both are obviously trying to make me very uncomfortable.

Rude inanimate objects.

Uh oh

Automatic Gearbox Warning Contact Volvo Dealer Immediately

Sigh.

According to Volvo's owners manual, this warning is signaled by flashing arrow on my dashboard. A flashing arrow appeared on my dashboard as I was racing my wee beastie to water therapy this afternoon. I made it to water therapy, I made it back to the repair shop. I parked the car there and walked the mile or so back to work.

Yeah. I was late getting back.

Now I get to see how much it will cost me to repair Volvo. Poor Volvo. Poor moose-battling Volvo. He does his best, Volvo does, but there's only so much a little Swedish sedan can do. Even if he is made out of cast iron.

I asked the woman at the desk at the repair shop to wave a magic wand and make it an easy repair that cost very little and she laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. It unsettled me, that laugh, almost as much as the brochures for Mediterranean cruises that littered her work space.

Now, dearest invisible friend, please understand. I accept that as the owner of a vehicle, I have to pay for some maintenance and repair. I would just prefer not to be someone's vacation fund. I think I pay enough for other things. Things. Stuff. Services. Thousands and thousands of dollars for it.

Not that I wasn't delighted to fund the education of those therapists' college-age children. I see that as a benefit to society. One wouldn't wish therapists' children to be left to run loose on the streets. Education is always of value.

The yacht was excessive. Oh, yes, he needed the yacht. Pfft.

And the Christmas cards I get from Duracell are lovely. One can hardly regret that expenditure. I see this as a boost to the economy.

What?

But I really hope this particular repair job is inexpensive. I'm almost out of batteries.

Six Days and Counting!

Hello, darling. Sorry we missed each other yesterday, but Roommate and I had a Day Out. Yes, thank you, it was a lovely day. We started the day with a quick visit to Rochelle's fabulous doggy boutique; one of her dogs had puppies last month! Even Roommate was made weak by the cuteness. Sadly, all the babies have homes waiting for them, so we could not smuggle them into our home. But look!

Yes, there were squealing noises made. Okay, mostly by me. And I know, we don't need another dog. But ohhhhhhh. Babies!!!!

Ow! Jeeze. That hurt. I accept that I was getting a little out of control, but do you blame me?

Tcha! Fine.

Moving on.

After that, we went up to Vancouver, British Columbia. We met a friend, we had lunch, we bopped around Grenville Island, we played tourist. On our way home, we picked up Big Head Ted. A lovely day. Lovely! And I needed it to be, as it was my one day off in eleven days.

That sounds whiny, doesn't it? Okay, whinier than usual. Shut it. And normally, a day off in an eleven day stretch wouldn't be that big of a deal. But I'm antsy.

Ask me why! Ask me why!!

Okay, since you asked...I have time off coming up! And not just any time off. I have...

[Wait for it.]

APRIL off.

That's right! The whole darn month! I know!

Now, before you get too excited, it's not all going to be fun and games. Some fun. The occasional game. But not all. I am taking this month to work on my next book.

Can you believe it???

So. I will be staying at the lake cabin for part of the month, working away at my next WIP. There will be breaks to watch hockey and conversations with my wee beastie, who will be along for the ride. Roommate may pop out for the odd weekend with the beagles. GF Jen may drive up for a few days of intensive editing on my present WIP. I may beg Kristen to take a day from the hordes of animals and family to do the same. [She might laugh mockingly. At this point, we don't know.] But copious volumes of writing will occur.

And NO work-work. Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!

That's right. The lab will be a Lisa-Marie-free zone. Someone else will have to be snarky and passive-aggressive! Naturally, I have every faith in my coworkers' ability to bitch, moan and complain and I don't think my absence will be noticed.

Well, except for the baking. They might notice that.

Sigh. I'm so excited I could plotz.

Prose and Poetry

It's a lot of nothing
he said
this patient I like,
The patient I enjoy.
It's a lot of this and that
here and there

And I agreed.

It is the step taken
The shoe
On the foot
It is the bone, the muscle, the tendons
that are my stories.
Buried in detritus
mired in commonplace.

It isn't the journey.
It isn't the moment, frozen
in language.
It isn't the core of all that is
or was
or never will be
because my tale survives only on the surface.
The cotton fluff would crush and melt
under the weight of meaning
in the magma of his earth.

It is candy versus creation.
It is volume versus molecules of meaning.

It does not have the responsibility of verse,
my universe.
It is what I do.

And this is why I don't write poetry anymore.

They're everywhere.

I was just walking to the store on my lunch break today when I came upon an astonishing sight. Not astonishing for its originality, oh no, but rather, for its triviality.

As I approached the crosswalk, I could feel the vibration of bass [low musical tones, not fish] coming from a vehicle that had probably started life looking like this:

Now, the short bed pickup truck has never made a lot of sense to me. If one needed a truck, I assumed, one should have a truck that could carry more than a suitcase in its truck bed. But people like what people like, so it never occurred to me to say too much about it. I would tilt my head like a bemused collie and mutter, "Hmm..." under my breath and that was enough.

Today, however, I came face to face, or face to grill, with a vehicle that had started with the indignity of the short bed and then had the added humiliation of the overexuberant application of chrome to nearly every available surface. That which was not chromed was painted an eye-searing orange which shimmered in different colors with changes in position. The wheels, or rims I'm told is the correct name for these, gleamed like expensive, albeit tacky jewelry in the early spring sunshine. The nearly microscopic outline of black tire only highlighted their fabulosity. This vehicle reminded me of nothing more that one of those baby beauty pageant contestants, tarted up beyond all recognition.

As I gazed at this ridiculous trucklet and its surely proud-as-punch driver, all I could think was...

Oh, sweetie. Your penis is fine.

Introducing the AATA

Okay, dear one. You know I don't normally post twice in one day, but something caught my eye. This is the cover of April's Conde Nast Traveler. Note the upper right hand corner of the cover:

Ooo, places to see right now? That sounds super! That sounds exciting! These are place that might not be as good to see later, say five years down the line. How useful, how helpful of the fellows at Conde Nast to share this information with me...and everyone else who reads this magazine. But no matter! I shall read and perhaps, I'll find my next dream vacation spot!

Destination #1...a hot new spot in Brasil! Trancoso. Ahh...even the name sounds exotic and thrilling. Perfectly illustrated by the photo of some dream weaver in a Speedo, article author Bob Payne lists the reasons why to go, why to go now, what to do if one does go now and golly, even the best way to get there.

So far, this looks great! The bit on Trancoso was followed by the same snippets of info on Sri Lanka, Oman, Lhasa, Maldives, Mexico. Brooklyn made Mr. Payne's list at number 7! [Note to self: tell spicy Cuban Mo this. I'm sure she'd love to travel to Brooklyn.]

Mozambique was on the list after Brooklyn. I'm not sure how the locations were arranged, but the organization does pose a question or two, does it not?

Anyway.

I read further and there it was. Location number 10, sandwiched between Zona Cafetera, Colombia and Kurdistan, Iraq. May I say that neither of those locales ever made my Top Ten list for vacation sites, either? But number 10, in all its glory, was:

That's right. Libya.

I'm not really sure what Bob [Bring The] Payne is thinking. Perhaps he belongs to the Anti-American Travelers Association [We've killed more American tourists than any other service since 1994!] or maybe, just maybe he's less in touch with world events than I am. I didn't know that was possible, but there you are.

Maybe Bob thinks I can just hang out with Momar Gad--Muammar Quad--how the hell do you spell that guy's name?? I'm not calling him Mo. And while I'm sure he's a blast at a party, but I have to say, I'd rather not be at ground zero when he blows.

Libya. Yeah. I don't think so.