February 12, 2003 (#32), (and before ...)

Honey pies,

I survived Christmas in the Carolinas and had a lovely time... until I rounded the corner, saw the double wide still hooked up to the tractor, the gun rack and the hand painted sign "Trailer Trash". We drove back in one day. I've left my past behind and try to keep it that way.

Meanwhile, what fun we're having here. I woke to blaring reports of the local markets being overwhelmed with mothers fighting over duct tape and plastic sheeting.


How dungeonesque... my first thought... then as Abattoir came in for his allowance which he also planned on spending on these items, I became a bit more concerned. "But, sweet frite, why plastic sheeting when I have cotton percale?"

Goodness gracious me, my fluffy browned lemon meringues, he was planning on taping up the windows in the case of chemical attacks. I've tried to explain over and over that directives from government agencies will do us little good as they have basically already set us up as a bull's eye for any nefarious activity, so he might as well just pop a cork and not let old vintages go to waste.

He was a bit mollified, but at least he is putting his allowance to better use.

Now, syrupy pecans, lest you think me a little dire, I shall explain.

It all started at my manicure apointment this past Tuesday. I've been seeing Yurgei for years, and he really does wonders with what sad offerings I give him every week.

"Yurgei, aren't you just simply out of your mind with worry about all this fuss?"

"Trudy, why fuss, our time in this city may be short, why waste it."

The palmolive soaking liquid went stone cold. I clutched his orange stick. It was not a sentiment I was looking to have expressed to me so directly.

But really, my hot cheesy apples, what else to do? After all, I've tried calling, writing, walking, but in the end no one up there seems to be listening to me. I suspect that donation to the RNC wasn't large enough.

OH! Mother of God, I forgot to send in the envelope!

And it was so darling too. A picture of a large elephant with little happy faces on it and inside was blank so I could write my own message which went something like this:

"So sorry you didn't get the popular vote, but you managed it anyway. Here's a little something so you might feel better about being 2nd best once again. Buy yourself a candy bar."

And I put in a nice crisp new dollar bill.

Well, I'll still be marching and calling and writing because I abhor a vacuum and I need something to do until 6 o'clock. But I really can't see spoiling my view especially since the run to the House of Hooch won't be under plastic sheeting and duct tape.

Perhaps he'll ... we'll wake up and this will all have been a dream. And if we don't wake up, won't we all be the good little soldiers. But I do so detest posthumous honors, I just can't stand missing the party. Then again, I'd hate to go that party when so many of the friends I've made of the years of traveling have been so rudely disinvited.

But I fear, my black bottoms, that I'm brooding. It's just so strange to me to think that as I go about poking around the market, there is someone over there doing just exactly the same thing and I can only imagine what she or he must be thinking.

On a lighter note, my chocolate creams, the neighbors downstairs are rumoured to be leaving. Perhaps there is a bright side to terror.