Flotsam

Oh sweet, sweet Interweb. Sweet, sweet high speed connection. As I mentioned last week, I am house-sitting for my mother while she is in Switzerland. My mother has a fancy piano she never plays. My mother has a tiny Chagall hanging above said piano. And yet, my mother has dial-up. Obviously someone’s priorities are not in order. I have a high speed internet connection in my apartment, and if that means that I must live on Soup-at-Hand and peanut butter sandwiches, so be it. I ground my teeth to nubs trying to keep up with your blogs from my Mother’s house, and finally I cracked and DROVE HOME TO MY APARTMENT to use the internet.
Anyway, here I am, back in the world of zippy information exchange. I think I will be posting every day for a while, if you don’t mind. Usually I try to give everyone a chance to comment before I post something new, because I would hate to miss revelations like these or stories like these, but I am on day two one two one of my hateful charting cycle, I just found out I am moving, and I start school in a week. So I have lots of inane, whiny things to say, and I doubt I will be able to wait two whole days between posts to say them. You will just have to try to keep up. Or not.

Sunday was Confabulous The Second. I am sure those who were unable to attend clamor for details, and so here are a few of the more notable ones:

• Erin did not show up. At first I was unconcerned, certain she would simply appear the next day. But other members of the party were less convinced, and an eventual check of my email (very…slowly, courtesy of my mother’s dial-up) revealed that she was unable to attend due to a last minute torrent of vomit produced by her husband and two children.
• Due to an underwire mishap, I was forced to wear a bright blue bra. I thought the shirt I chose to wear concealed that fact. It did not.
• Even after all the “Ha ha, I’ll try not to burn anything this time!” jokes, I managed to burn some of the bacon.
• Molly is as tiny and gorgeous as ever. Hair? Still shiny. Tooth? Still charmingly removable. I cannot help but harbor fantasies of building her a comfortable (but tightly-locked) cell in my basement, so that we may spend our evenings together, eating cheese and mocking things.
• Jennifer, whom I met in my class and tricked charmed into becoming my friend, not only has no blog of her own, she has NEVER READ A BLOG. Well, actually she probably has now, because I gave her my site address before she left. Hi Jennifer! Anyway, we bullied her into agreeing to start one, as everyone knows that an infertile without a blog is like a bluebird without a song, or a Shriner without a tiny, tiny hat.
• Jennifer and I were the only ones drinking, which I somehow interpreted as an imperative to pick up the alcoholic slack by consuming half a bottle of champagne.
• Molly’s husband is very attractive, and not at all what you would expect given his fondness for “Magic: The Gathering.” He took a picture of us that I am sure would have been lovely were it not for the fact that in it my breasts glow like blue beacons, and appear to be each roughly the size of Molly’s head.
• Two days ago, while I flew around the kitchen filling ice buckets and wrapping presents and emitting a high-pitched whistle of anxiety, the doorbell rang. When I answered it, I saw an attractive woman with perfect eyebrows and a manicure that caused me to glance down at my own fingernails and wish I had worn mittens. It was DD, arriving for the Confabulous. I am sure nearly everyone reading this knows DD. I am sure because she is omnipresent in our wee blogosphere–always commenting, always offering her condolences or congratulations, always offering her support. She has recently been delivered a crushing blow, and I think a little wagon-circling is in order. Please visit her here.

Apparently if there is one thing characteristic of life it is the inopportune sandwiching of disparate ends of the emotional spectrum. One minute you are held aloft on a pinnacle of mimosas and goodness, the next you are flat on your back in the mud. And just when you’ve become accustomed to life in the dirt, you find yourself climbing out of it again.

I wish you all more days on the pinnacle than in the slop. And I will see you tomorrow.