Lost for Words
I am worried that I have run out of things to say on this blog. Noone has dinged me lately (not since the United Nations on Thursday at any rate), NewKitty is happily roosting over at BostonKate's house, the bacteria in the septic tank continue to chomp away undisturbed - in short nothing's happening except the clock is ticking down to deportation day.
You know I am desperately scratching for straws when I tell you that the only thing passing for a semi adventure this week was when I accidentally showered myself and my BGL-leaving-present Prada handbag with gasoline at the World's Worst Gas Station. (I asked for a cloth to clean up, the man went to fetch one, then walked straight past me and started wiping the side of the car with it.) I've had to leave my bag outside for two days running to evaporate the gas.
* * *
The other thing that happened this weekend was that my mother went to Cuba. Not permanently, just for holiday. Before she left she sent a particularly detailed email about her travel details, then while she was about it, details of her travel insurance, home insurance, and car insurance. This might seem over the top, if it wasn't that my mother lives in a very old house which is always either being burgled or damaged in storms. Plus, only a couple of months ago she bashed up her Mercedes in an accident. So I can kind of see why she put all that stuff in. However, the new man in her life, who neither my sister or I have ever yet had any dealings with, was copied in on the original email on the grounds that he is supposed to be picking my mother and her friend up from Gatwick airport on their return. For some reason he thought it would be appropriate to "reply to all", after my mother's departure, with the one line sentence to the effect of "You forgot to say whether you prefer cremation or burial." I spent a good deal of time in the car this morning trying to think of suitable email replies I could send to this stranger which would let him know what an ass he was. But I couldn't come up with anything that I could be even 51% sure would not upset my mother.
* * *
So this coming weekend I am going up to DC to meet "Pubshy" who is over from the UK. It's kind of appropriate that DC is the venue for a weekend with someone who is so paranoid about appearing anywhere in print, even heavily disguised on a humble little blog that only about nine people in the world seem to read. It is after all the city where Deep Throat and Bob Woodward would have assignations in underground car parks, where John Le Carre spies would rendezvous on benches alongside the Reflecting Pool, and where Kevin Costner would run around pretending not to be a deep cover Soviet mole. So I am not sure what I am going to be able to tell you - I may have to leave out every identifying proper noun.
You know I am desperately scratching for straws when I tell you that the only thing passing for a semi adventure this week was when I accidentally showered myself and my BGL-leaving-present Prada handbag with gasoline at the World's Worst Gas Station. (I asked for a cloth to clean up, the man went to fetch one, then walked straight past me and started wiping the side of the car with it.) I've had to leave my bag outside for two days running to evaporate the gas.
* * *
The other thing that happened this weekend was that my mother went to Cuba. Not permanently, just for holiday. Before she left she sent a particularly detailed email about her travel details, then while she was about it, details of her travel insurance, home insurance, and car insurance. This might seem over the top, if it wasn't that my mother lives in a very old house which is always either being burgled or damaged in storms. Plus, only a couple of months ago she bashed up her Mercedes in an accident. So I can kind of see why she put all that stuff in. However, the new man in her life, who neither my sister or I have ever yet had any dealings with, was copied in on the original email on the grounds that he is supposed to be picking my mother and her friend up from Gatwick airport on their return. For some reason he thought it would be appropriate to "reply to all", after my mother's departure, with the one line sentence to the effect of "You forgot to say whether you prefer cremation or burial." I spent a good deal of time in the car this morning trying to think of suitable email replies I could send to this stranger which would let him know what an ass he was. But I couldn't come up with anything that I could be even 51% sure would not upset my mother.
* * *
So this coming weekend I am going up to DC to meet "Pubshy" who is over from the UK. It's kind of appropriate that DC is the venue for a weekend with someone who is so paranoid about appearing anywhere in print, even heavily disguised on a humble little blog that only about nine people in the world seem to read. It is after all the city where Deep Throat and Bob Woodward would have assignations in underground car parks, where John Le Carre spies would rendezvous on benches alongside the Reflecting Pool, and where Kevin Costner would run around pretending not to be a deep cover Soviet mole. So I am not sure what I am going to be able to tell you - I may have to leave out every identifying proper noun.
posted by alranson | 2:19 PM
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