Thursday, June 22, 2006

On the Morning Sun

I woke up just after five this morning for no good reason. A good reason might be that a well-oiled Mr. or Mrs. Universe contestant baking croissants, filling my house with the aromas of buttery pastry and fresh coffee; sunlight through the blinds, birdsongs, the music of pleasant breezes through the leaves. Criminy, I need bedroom curtains. Anyway, tossing and turning produced no results so I'm up and reading the Blogosphere. Fortunately, as Siobhan says annually with great vehemence and perfect diction, "I'm on vacation. Everyone can bite me."

Tomorrow night, my family gathers in Frederick, Maryland for my cousin Monday's wedding. I hate weddings with a fiery passion so I'm really looking forward to the ceremonial hungover drive home. This morning, I have an appointment with Rosana, my hairdresser; this afternoon, an appointment with soap operas and nail polish. Don't think for a minute primping can be skipped or minimized. We're being photographed for posterity, here. Monday's great-grandchildren had better snap to attention when long after we're pushing up daisies they find these pictures, curled around the edges, mildewy, faded, and containing not a single head of hair its natural color.

These things must be done precisely and with conviction. No one is going to photograph me with the slightest hint of a Sicilian lady-mustache - not without a sombrero and an arrest warrant, anyway. Yesterday, I was sitting in a meeting in a building I don't usually go to, with people I see once a month, give or take a month when deadlines tighten. My boss Gianna is conducting the meeting and it is, um, being conducted to its conclusion when Gianna says, "Okay, that's it, thanks."

Tata: Lorna, what color eyes do you have?
Lorna: What?
Gianna: What?
Tata: What color are you eyes? I can't tell from here.
Lorna: They're brown.
Gianna: Did you bump your head or something?
Tata: Ten of us are in this room. If Lorna had blue eyes that'd make it five-even and statistically -
Lorna: The proportion is wrong.
Gianna: No more coffee for you! You're cut off!
Tata: It's just the kind of thing I notice. Also: everyone's wearing black shoes and I'm an excellent driver.
Gianna: Call me when you're doing this excellent driving so I can get off the road, huh?

The Devil is in the details and he is not alone.


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