November 13, 1999 (#27), (and before ...)

My indigestible sweet potato pies,

Here I be, sitting alone in the neighbor's closet wearing yesterday's face and seeking just a bit of quiet interrupted only by the sweet tinkling of the ice cubes swimming in a lovely lake of something clear and delicious that's not apple juice.

Gracious me I could hardly hear myself think at home. What with all the party guests and then the television blaring cartoons - I've become a day care. It's a long shot, but they might learn something, unfortunately I'm pooped. I had no idea how much trouble teenagers could be. And soooo sensitive. When I was a teenager...

Oh, let's not do that.

It's not that I mind party guests. Holy oyster stuffing, it's what makes me breathe, raggedly at that. It's just that, sometimes the party turns on you, and you realize you haven't any control.

For the moment.

June 28th - the last time I had anything to say to you at length. My, so long ago and in fact that was the eve of my triumphant return to Syria.

"Oh Trudy, what's all this fuss about Syria." Well, my little bisquick dumplings, again the guest of an important archaelogical dig, again time spent with officials drinking tea and again, just soaking up the scenery of the middle east - although this time I managed to find transportation which included air-conditioning lite.

Note, wet panties whilst taking in the ruins can keep you from concentrating properly on prior civilizations.

If you haven't been leaving your calling card lately, I won't say that I understand, but I certainly can empathize. I'm hoping the retro craze will bring back Men At Work and everyone will gain some perspective.

So quickly now, toodlely too through Syria, lovely Roman ruins. I've taken to prancing about the house as Queen Xenobia. Charming gal, took on the Roman empire and won until she tried to put her son in charge. It all comes back to children doesn't it?

And my creamed onions, if you thought Syria was blindingly hot, try Arkansas in August. Melted my wig and I was forced to go about in one of my mother's polyester headpieces that has all these flouncy bits. Polyester. Doubly hot. And if anyone even whispers the word micro-fibre, they're likely to be shown the door.

I've heard they plan on growing cotton with polyester fibres. Lovely. I can't get vermouth flavoured gin, but we can genetically engineer a pleasant plant like cotton into percale. Meanwhile I'm wearing out my arms shaking or stirring, as the request may be, and sweating like a ... well just sweating and I'm thinking about all those research dollars wasted on clothing.

Hmmm, I smell cabbage cooking.

And the saga continues if you can hold on. A family wedding in Abilene, South Carolina. Anyone from Abilene? Beautiful, but I've never seen so many trailers in my whole life - and considering my past that's quite a feat.

O mi papa turns out to be the life of the party. He ends up putting the moves on the majority of the bridesmaids' mothers and wears the band out. At some point he ends up on stage singing what turns out to be his theme song "Taking Care of Business". Yes sweet smashes potatoes, he is a Republican. All talk....

Two weeks later ANOTHER family wedding in southern California, south bay. Here the surprise was the groom's brother. He didn't put the moves on the bridesmaids, rather they were all over him, but as he is taken and producing he was just working off excess energy.

Excess energy. Perhaps a bit of Calgon could take care of that.

And then the latest fun just to bring you up to date was another family trip - this time to Italy to frolic through the homeland. Lakes here, lakes there, old houses. When we finally pulled into Venice it was all I could do not to kiss the ... canals. I shot off immediately to the shoe stores and made up for lost time. What were they thinking? We bypassed every possible wine region, bypassed grappa tastings, bypassed anything resembling a Prada boutique (not that I would ever, but it's a bit like seeing a city limit sign).

So you're au courant - at least with respect to me. The house is a mess, I've run out of milk and cookies and am frightened to think what will happen when it's discovered. That isn't exactly what their parents were expecting.

I apologize for all this scattered mess my french green bean casseroles. I slipped on someone's Pikachu on the stairs this morning and haven't been quite right since. The fact that I know what Pikachu is it terrifying enough, but don't send the penguins in yet. I'm considering ransoming off cards. The more rare the card, the farther you have to go from me to achieve it.

Money is no object.

At least not yet.
Trudy