A not very subtle fan has noted the lack of jots lately. He pointed this out by emailing me and telling me to write. He avoided threats. Mighty nice of him.
I wish I had an internal alarm like that.
"Warning: BEEP. You must write within the next 36 hours.
BEEP. It is time to get your eyes checked.
BEEP BEEP. That book you put down 17 days ago has slipped under the couch. BEEP BEEP, I SAY! You have not shaved the back of your calves in 3.5 weeks."
Instead I make my eye appointment when I bump into my eye doc at a bluegrass show. The book gets found when we move. The writing happens if the fan reminds me. And I discover the hair thing on the first warm day.
In my life: I had my first Facebook birthday. Turns out that you don't have to be a rock star as long as you've got Facebook on your birthday. That was really wonderful. My fave Happy Birthday came from a high school classmate who gave me the great opening by asking (tongue in cheek) how old I am. I told him that I had 24 more hours at 38 before I began the next 25 years of 39. My mom gave me a framed drawing of that eternal 39 year old, Jack Benny.
Birthday weekend I saw a favorite opera, "Tosca", my fave locals Billy Ray Hatley and the Showdogs, and a favorite national act, Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. In no particular order - all the musicians kissed me, they played all my favorite songs, and everyone died. You figure it out.
After that wonderful weekend I woke up Monday morning feeling happy, got dressed up, was having a great hair day and then threw up while driving my daughter to school. Flu.
Let's move on to going to the annual quilt show, seeing my cousin perform delightfully in "A Trip to Bountiful" out on the Northern Neck and a big honkin' snow storm.
Warning: BEEP. You promised your husband that you wouldn't be up half the night working on the computer.
BEEP. Tonight is the night to finish reading the article on the transformation of war into playable entertainment.
BEEP BEEP. The inspection sticker on your car expired in February.
BEEP BEEP, I SAY! If you don't get your liver test tomorrow your brilliant, mild-mannered rheumatologist is going to go howler monkey on you.