On a Jet Plane

So, yeah ... my birthday was a few days ago. And apparently my present to myself was taking a week off from this 'ere blog. I got lots of nifty presents and heard from lots of nifty people. There's a new stack of books in the living room waiting, oh so patiently. And on the DVD Rack, Cat's Eye keeps me from sleeping with my mouth open. I don't care what anybody says, that's a freaking scary movie for a nine-year old. Stop smoking or I'll cut you!!! Stop smoking or I'll kill your family!!! Stop smoking or I'll lock you in a tiny cell and shock you through the floor! Aaarrrggghhhh! Damnable childhood trauma.

I've been doing the stress thing lately. On Sunday I get on a plane to Boston bright and early. I drive a rental car and attempt to find my hotel. I've printed out lots of maps -- taken advantage of my AAA membership -- and compiled a binder of Useful Information. I really, really, really hope I get a chance to take the Ghosts and Gravestones tour. You know, because I've graduated from "Cat's Eye" scary. Now I'm ready for bone chilling suspension of disbelief.

Update on the Ikea cabinet: we got it home, we started setting it up, we discovered about 5 critical screws missing. I called the hotline -- the Ikea red phone -- and was given a case number and assured the parts were on their way. Five days later? No parts. Not even a little part. Not even a little. The cabinet is currently upside down in the living room, propped up against a bookshelf so the cat can't sleep inside. Stupid Ikea.

One of my birthday books is Anais Nin's "Henry and June." She wrote so beautifully. It's such a strange journal -- self-conscious and candid and poetic. Skillful.

Time is passing faster than it should be allowed to pass. That doesn't change.