It’s My Party, I’ll Blog What I Want To . . .

Today, dear blog reader, promised self that I would NOT, absolutley NOT look at my blog stats. Because it’s too much of a headache to try and figure out why the same post — having to do with Jane Eyre and Epic Movie and David Carradine — would be my “most viewed”, why people googling “Kerry Condon boobs” or “Alicia Keys huge calves” end up on my blog, why blog viewership seems to have dropped off so drastically since self started blogging about trip to Hawaii (“I think you’d better stop blogging about Hawaii,” Zack tells me in all seriousness) — BUT, as soon as self turned on the laptop just now (Which is SICK with a humongous tummy ache, because cannot disgorge CD of Office 2004 for MAC which has been stuck in its innards the whole past week, and so keeps whirring and whirring, to no avail), promised self a peek, just one peek, at which point wandering eye fell on “Top Posts”, which confirmed that yes, once again, that post which mentions the funny girl from the film Red Eye, is still the “most viewed.”

(At which moment of extreme disappointment, hear Katie Couric intoning solemnly from the TV: Tonight, why people are addicted to internet porn. Woman, can’t you see I’m busy here ???)

But, anyway, self has nothing better to do, is just awaiting mail. Lately, rejections have been coming thick and fast. Since they always come in clumps, can almost predict that when self gets one rejection, will therefore receive three or four more in quick succession. Then, can expect quiet for several months — that is, until receiving the next rejection.

But, Good Lord, why is self being so morose? So pessimistic? Wouldn’t it be much better, much more productive, to believe in self? To assert that self has talent? Instead of always preparing for the worst? After all, it is possible that self might actually win a (you fill in the blank, dear blog reader) __________ Award, in which case self can see herself flying to Paris,, shopping on the Faubourg Saint – Honoré and sitting in a cafe with a book, crossing her legs and showing off latest Manolo Blahniks . . .

You see how easy it is for self to get carried away, dear blog reader? Which is why self must always exercise extreme vigilance and not allow even one iota of optimism to infect self’s good judgement.

Who is self kidding? Self’s only hope is NOT to hear back from anyone, after popping manuscripts in the mail. The worst are rejections from journals self has never heard of (until deciding to apply) — like Ninth Letter, from whom received teeny-weeny form rejection, about the size of an index card, tucked lovingly into SASE, which self has to google because she has completely forgotten who/what this is. In addition, have completely forgotten which story self sent them, possibly as far back as six months ago (Is it even worth the bother, self is wondering now . . . But, of course, eventually do trundle over to files and find that self is an excellent record-keeper: Story is “Rita & Tony”, which has been rejected now, let’s see, maybe seven or eight times)

Well, this afternoon self was outside giving the clematis “henryii” one more water — because, in spite of dire warning from Wegman’s Nursery guy that self was “strangling” the plant (!!), leaves are still turning brown at alarming rate. This in spite of the fact that self was good and exercised supreme self-control and did not water the last two days, which coincidentally turned out to be the hottest two days so far this year.

So, here you go, clem! Here’s water! In bucket-loads! And don’t you dare shrivel up and die.

Also, while in backyard, noticed that the brown spots self had sighted yesterday on Sunflare, and which self thought were just some kind of sap or something, were actually alive. Moving. Grabbed the spray bottle and doused that plant with insecticide until every leaf dripped, until self’s throat and eyes burned. Stumbled inside, saw message light blinking. Heard Dearest Mum’s throaty, whispered message: “Did you try and call me just now? Because it’s 3 AM IN MANILA.”

Shoot! Just missed her call! And now self is afraid to call her back, in case Dearest Mum has managed to fall asleep, and will be annoyed at being woken up again. So, spend the next four hours doing various things like browsing websites for small presses who self might be able to interest in her latest collection (Synopsis: Hmm, the stories are about an inarticulate Filipina? With a knack for getting into “situations”? Does this sound even remotely familiar, dear blog reader?). Wait, wait, wait. Finally, 6 AM in Manila, determine this is an OK hour to try. Lift the phone, upon which keep getting busy signal. Surmise Dearest Mum has left the phone off the hook, in order to sleep uninterrupted. Am on the point of returning to backyard when phone rings. Dearest Mum it is.

“It wasn’t me,” self says right off.

“Oh? You’re the only person I can think of who’d call at that time.”

Oh, gee. Thanks, Dearest Mum!

Dearest Mum tells me she showed her credit card to sister-in-law Ying, and Ying too could not locate a three-digit number on the back. To top things off, Dearest Mum asked to see Ying’s ATM card, and her card too did not have the three-digit code at the back.

Self wonders aloud, “Maybe cards issued in Manila are different –?”

And Dearest Mum is outraged, says, “MY card was issued in the States! And so was Ying’s!”

Realize that, once again, self and Dearest Mum have arrived at terrible impasse.

Finally, hit on a brilliant idea. Ask Dearest Mum for her pin, her checking account number, and her social security number. Also, for good measure, verify grandmother’s maiden name. Will try calling the bank 800 number, and see if self can find out how much there is in the account. Perhaps, this way, can lay to rest any and all uncertainties.

Stay tuned, dear blog reader, stay tuned.

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