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she· verb
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06.29.03
First things first. Sadly, one person did not receive her postcard. If you are not that person and you received your postcard, please continue on to the next paragraph--this message is not intended for you. Be respectful of her loss and run along now. Take care. Buh-bye. Are we alone now, you and I? Good. Person! I'm terribly sorry I left your address on the printer at work! I am such a dork! I promise to make it up to you the next time I venture away from home! Maybe even with fudge! If I should be visiting a location that sells fudge, I mean! And if you're not diabetic or allergic to fudge or something! Because the last thing I want to do is to first slight you and then accidentally kill you! Okay! So we're good then? Great! Now that I have attended to that matter, I'll address the next one. I took no pictures in West Virginia. Well, I did, but they are family-related and involve babies and card games and a 50th wedding anniversary dinner and various groups of uncles and cousins gathered on porches, smoking cigars, drinking 12-year-old single malt whiskey and cheap chardonnay, telling stories of adventures in the Galapagos, Newfoundland and other impossibly remote locations. The photos are for our eyes only and trust me, you'll be happier this way. Well, not really, but it will make you feel better about the whole non-inclusion in my fun fun weekend thing. Trust me. On Wednesday night I dreamt that Brett Easton Ellis decided to protest the acts of the Bush administration by no longer writing in the format of the contemporary American novel. Rather, until Bush left office, Ellis would only write in the poetic form of the rondanelle. I never learned how his efforts turned out because the dream changed and I found myself tossing blueberries at my husband until he became annoyed with me. The nuggets of subconscious responsible for the first part of the dream have clearly confused the villanelle for some sort of rounder version, and Brett Easton Ellis with a novelist of merit who carries some measure of political clout. The second part of the dream came directly from several hours earlier when Hula and I sat on the couch, watching the newly Frankenstein-headed Nick Cave* on Letterman, with a giant bowl of berry trifle between us and one spoon apiece. After polishing off a significant quantity of berry, cakey goodness**, Hula suggested I carry the bowl back to the kitchen in a Marxist attempt to force a division of labor. (He brought the bowl out from the kitchen.) My subconscious, as well as the cozy and pajama-clad self who was comfortably planted on the couch amidst puppies, Cave and pillows, would like to know where Karl Marx was when I cooked dinner, washed the dishes AND made the trifle that evening. (Sleeping soundly in his grave, no doubt, not bothering Hula one whit.) I returned to work this week mildly apprehensive that my job would be eliminated but was pleased to find out that I have at least a few week's reprieve. A large upgrade of the dinosaur is closing in on a deadline and appears not to be in jeopardy of being cancelled. Hurray for the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996 (August 21), Public Law 104-191, which amends the Internal Revenue Service Code of 1986, also known as the Kennedy-Kassebaum Act!
* Yes, yes. I'm aware that Frankenstein was the scientist and that Frankenstein's Monster was the one with the freakishly large forehead, but A., "watching the newly Frankenstein's Monster-headed Nick Cave" would have made the sentence more cumbersome that it already was, and B., clearly I meant that Nick Cave appeared not to be a scientist, but to have a new haircut that revealed his freakishly large forehead. ** Berry Trifle
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