If you added up all my blogposts since 2003, you’d have something like 7,200 separate articles. Only about 650 are actually searchable on morganica.com right now. Tried to import the rest, but so far can’t figure out a way to do that without spamming the heck out of the 1,500 or so subscribers who asked to be notified when I [...]
"You're 5,000 miles overdue," he said reproachfully, "CherryBaby needed her tires rotated at 15,000." I puzzled over that one, since CherryBaby rotates her tires madly every time we hit the road. The ins and outs of automotive maintenance aren't really my thing--when your dad regards tinkering with cars the way everyone else regards fine Belgian chocolate, there's not much need. But the service dude seemed to think this was a terrible faux pas, so I apologized.
I opened the bedroom door yesterday morning and Lola strolled in, purring ecstatically, wearing my underpants on her head. (Yes, I took pictures and no, you can't see them) I made a mental note to ALSO lock up the dirty laundry basket.
The elevator door slid shut and I broke into a jig. I hopped in samba time, waved my arms wildly, sang in time to the music of my feet. We reached my floor, the door slid open, and I walked out, sober as ever, ghost of a grin...if you know where to look. Yup. I'm an elevator dancer. Are you?
"You're going to raise WHAT????" Tami sputtered, laughing so hard I thought about getting out the defibrillator. "Chickens," I said, with a great deal of dignity, "What's so funny about a few chickens in the backyard?" "Maybe the fact that I'm not even sure you know where your backyard IS?" she asked. I blame Brenda. Ernie's mom Brenda, out in [...]
The old folk at the Ace Hardware think I sniff glue. LOTS of glue. They're amazed my brain hasn't exploded. Yet. Maybe I should explain.
"YOU're Cynthia?" she asked, obviously aghast. "You're really not what I pictured Cynthia would look like." I know exactly what she means. People are supposed to look like their names, and it's awfully disconcerting when they don't. Me, I've always thought a Cynthia should be a tall, willowy brunette with very long fingers, huge eyes, graceful arms and extremely prominent [...]
"You need to invent," she said, "a mythology." "A who?" "A mythology. For your pendants," and she tapped one authoritatively, "You need to involve your customers in the story behind these faces." "Ahhhhhh, you want the backstory," I said, "Sure. See, I always seem to put faces in everything I sculpt, no matter what..." "No," she said impatiently, "MYTH-OL-O-GY. What [...]
"Wanna buy some cookies?" She's standing with her mom at the entrance to the grocery store, snugly bundled against the rain, reminding me that it's Girl Scout cookie season. Stacks and stacks of cookie boxes weigh down her table and an artfully handmade sign--COOKEZ 4 SAIL!--proclaims that she's open for business. I gulp and stiffen the ol' backbone. I don't need ANY cookies, not even those peanut-buttery ones, or the sweetly tangy lemon--STOP IT CYNTHIA! Besides, my neighborhood scout-lettes will eagerly sell me a box or dozen. Buying cookies from the neighborhood is a given where I live; I'd probably have to sneak strangers' cookies in under cover of darkness.
Last weekend the antmind temporarily took over my master bathroom. Thanks to perseverance and enough bugspray to float a battleship, I retook the disputed territory about fifteen minutes after they planted the flag. Yet spring is coming; this is only round 1. I'm thinking about tenting the house and letting off the formicidean equivalent of a nuclear warhead inside. Take [...]
