A. In this morning's email I got
1. A pretty rotten review for Summer's latest. It gave me the urge to kick the dog (she loves being kicked. Seriously. If she's tired, she thinks its a caress; if she's playful, she thinks it's an invitation to wrestle) but then I found an upside for me. Hey! The site, which I'd always scoffed at as one of those only pro-rave sites is actually a real review site. That makes all their previous reviews, which were all Way to GO, Summer! Yay, Kate! seem more genuine. No, I'm not going to link because the review is icky. Google it if you want. Poor ol' Taken Unaware. No one likes it.
2. A nice letter from someone named Laurette T. who suggested I put books into POD. As long as no one asks me to pay them, why not? And cafepress is easy to use. Except now I've run into a hitch. When I tried to upload the PDF file the instructions informed me that the fonts had to be embedded. WTF? What are they if they're not embedded? Where do I bed them? So that POD thing might not happen. Unless one of you can tell me what I'm doing wrong.
B. Many women from my road went to the local restaurant's karoake night--the one at the end of the street since we had no intention of driving home.
In the small bar at the back, we ran into another group of women. Many of them knew many of us and I realized that even if I am a hermit, I have met people here in my town, after all. This was my first experience of karoake (other than at kids' parties) and it, along with all these people out of context, was bizarre as a Robert Altman movie. People are transformed by that microphone. And some transformations are gorgeous, others are appalling, and a few are both. It's more personality shifting than alcohol. The two together--alcohol and karoake--carries people I know into another, stranger world. I think I love it in small doses. No, I did not sing. Two beers wasn't enough to get me up there.
C. I went to Fatima's house to get more sox and lace and of course, couldn't just walk in and out. That's a real insult. I must sit down and be stuffed like a fois gras goose. Once again, I never want to eat Borek or Pitak again. Urp.
I met the woman who helps some of the Bosnians get passports. She's pretty amazing. She got here in 1993, landed in NYC and hated it. She moved to CT and learned English from Sesame Street and Barney. Her story as a war victim was featured in a story in the paper and then she became a character in a play. I'm not sure if it was Eve Ensler's play--I think it had to have been something big because she was taken to New York in a limo to see the play (Ensler's play actually premiered here in Hartford. I went with a bunch of Bosnians ). That night sounds like the highlight of her life.
rest of the visit: Everyone seemed to be saying what's the point of staying here when the jobs are drying up in the US. But Europe is no better, they hear. Ireland is really, really scary bad. Eat more, Kate. And how about another cup of spoon-dissolving coffee?
D. I have to run, dammit. It's been too long and the weight piles on the second I get off the treadmill. Especially after I've visted Fatima or Remzija. No one has heard from Ajisa for a while and that's worrisome since she's the only one who is a steady person for poor Senija.