Second Day After Arriving From Manila

Good evening, dear blog readers.  Self is safely ensconced on couch (which was her fave pre-Manila position), and the show of choice is Bourne 2, and it is the most exciting scene:  the slap-boxing between Matt and the suave guy in the black suit, the one who points a gun at Matt before Matt tells him he has emptied it of bullets.

The AT&T guy came and went.  After examining our line, he said he would be back on Tuesday.  But self has discovered that if she moves her laptop this way and that (pulling signals from the air, so to speak), she can just manage to get on-line, for short blips of time.  Hence this post.

Today was all right.  Self got herself into “laundry” mode.  She got herself into “Catching up on The New Yorker back issues” mode.  She got a rejection from Millay, which caused her to heave a deep sigh of relief, for she can now stop feeling so guilty (in advance) for leaving hubby to do all the watering of the garden by himself this summer.  People told her she was crazy to apply to Millay in the summer, and she went ahead and did it anyway.  Now she knows people were right (or perhaps self was also right, for perhaps she secretly didn’t want to go away for the summer, hence applying to Millay for the summer —  ha ha ha!)

The February Vanity Fair has Cate Blanchett on the cover and is tiny, tiny tiny tiny.  Self compares it with the January issue (the one with Tina Fey), just to be sure it hasn’t shrunk.  No, the January and February issues are exactly the same size.  Well, it’s just gross when a magazine like Vanity Fair shrinks to those miniscule proportions.  Why, even Filipino mags like Foodie and Rogue have enough self-respect not to play the “let’s-cut-back-on-costs-by-reducing-magazine-size” game.

Now she wonders whether she should try writing a little bit.  The story she is reading (from New Yorker of 10 November 2008 ) is by a guy or girl with the extremely fab name of Wells Tower, and self thinks she can try writing a story like this, which is told entirely in second person (in fact, self began this post by writing in the second person, but abandoned the device after a couple of sentences).  The story is about the narrator’s mother (which self knows is an extremely fab subject, one about which she has recently accumulated piles and piles of material —  see recent posts with tag “Manila”)

The short story’s narrator once had an interesting baby sitter.  The following sentence describes the aforementioned:  He told you that in Florida there lived a race of murderous clowns who carried kitchen knives and who would come after you if you committed a sin.

So, all self would need to do to write her own version of this story would be to come up with a gang of murderous baby sitters (female), a group who would not shrink at administering rat poison to their innocent charges, all in the name of depravity (and in the service of earning self the appellation “searing and provocative”)

Shh, dear blog readers, be quiet.  Self must concentrate.  A story awaits.

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