An old Jag. They don't make them like that anymore.

One word.

Fuel.

One more word:

Humiliation.

According to inside sources, the fuel indicator went bananas. Apparently, Bob got us home on the last drop of gas .
"Damn you're lucky, " M said, when I called long-distance, to share the news.
"Just imagine it happening on the high way.  That car must really love you." he said.

Eaten by remourse, I took Bob out to spoil her rotten.
I filled her tank extravagantly and then I took her to where all Bobs hang out. The car wash.  
When I bring her to the garage on Monday, I don't want them to treat her like a juvenile delinquent, just because she's dirty. We may be Quirky, but we still have our pride.

Anyone interested in a Bob ? I mean, a Rover ? No?

I have to tell you, I think Bob and I have reached that point in our relationship, when counselling is the only option left, before we go our seperate ways.

Just the other day, M drove the 120 km or so to our hometown. "It's a fine, fine car," he said and , like any proud mother would, I blushed, although I think I managed to hide it well.

So, this afternoon, the gloomy Quirkchen y'all love to hate, or hate to love, or whatEVER, walkes out of her golden cage, walks over the sleeping Newfoundland, steps in dog poo, trips over a weird bundle of cats, (don't ask. Them cats are always involved in bizarre se.x.ual activities ), fights -and wins- the rustic rusty gate and walks over to her very dusty car.

She leaps into her seat, optimistic and hopefull because , you know, a girl has to put her trust in something;  Well, you know what happens next, don't you. Damn Bob just coughs and coughs, but does not start.

The only thing I could think of was "shit, shit shit. I don't have any cigarettes !" because, well, I didn't have any cigarettes left.   I rang M, who is away in god-forsaken Romania. "Dude, remember how you promised me a tractor a little while ago?" I said.

So anyway. He suggested that I'd walk (I'll repeat that: me. w.a.l.k ) up to the village, to buy cigarettes. He knows how the lack of cigarettes turns me into a raging sociopath and I think he was afraid I'll slaughter the neighbors while he's away and can't bail me out. He also suggested that I'd call the service, (Dah !) and get the car to the garage, which I was going to do anyway.  My plan was to just dump it there, and use his Jag.

Apparently, though, he thought of that option and as a precaution, took the car keys with him to, um, Romania, where no doubt he will have a lot of oportunities to actually use the damn thang.

I tell you, that man loves me so badly, it's sad.  I know, today bares a striking resemblance to that other time when Bob wouldn't start, but the wee difference suggests that  I should be thankful, really. And I'll tell you why.

1. Mistress of the universe and Bank Manager husband are away, it seems.

2. I don't have any final exams, today.

3. I found M's spare keys, in his underwear drawer.

4. Miraculously, I am now the giddy owner of 5 packs of Marlboro.

5. Don't ask, and I won't have to lie.

6. That jag is a super cool car. I want one, too.

I am so sad today. Actually, I was fine until my sister and family left in the late afternoon.  M and I collapsed on the sofa and watched "Road to Perdition,"  which I found to be depressing. Of course this melancholy has nothing to do with the film. It's not even the usual separation anxiety.  I am just overwhlmingly sad. 

I love my sister's kids. I love them all, but the wee guy in the middle moves me in mysterious ways. I worry about him. I can sit and watch him for hours, but even when he's being completely silly and hilariously goofy, there's something about him that makes me worry. He is such a special boy. It's beyond words. He is all good, full of tenderness and love, a  wonderful sense of humor and a remarkable view point on life. He says the most extraordinary things sometimes, things that make you freeze and wonder how on earth could a 4 year old come up with such an amazing observation. He's so fragile. I want to wrap my arm around him and protect him because there is so much evil in the world and he is so pure.

Blue Willow

Jody Gladding

A pond will deepen toward the center like a plate
we traced its shallow rim my mother steering
my inner tube past the rushes where I looked
for Moses we said it was a trip around the world
in China we wove through curtains of willow
that tickled our necks let's do that again
and we'd double back idle there lifting
our heads to the green rain
swallows met over us later I dreamed
of flying with them we had all the time
in the world we had the world
how could those trees be weeping?

from On the Verge: Emerging Poets and Artists, March 1994
New Cambridge Press

[http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/146.html]

Today stretched like a lonely road in the desert.

"Blue Willow," made me think of my sister Ti , when we were kids and the world was a wonder to her. She marveled at the stars up in the sky and wanted to know what's beyond them. She wanted to know, at age 3, if I thought there were other forms of life  and if so, what they were like. Space preoccupied her.
In our bedroom at the old house we used to turn the chairs upside down and pretend we were travelling in space, in our state-of-the-arts space shuttles. Everything seemed possible then. 

Forgotten Planet

Doug Dorph

I ask my daughter to name the planets.
"Venus ...Mars ...and Plunis!" she says.
When I was six or seven my father
woke me in the middle of the night.
We went down to the playground and lay
on our backs on the concrete looking up
for the meteors the tv said would shower.

I don't remember any meteors. I remember
my back pressed to the planet Earth,
my father's bulk like gravity next to me,
the occasional rumble from his throat,
the apartment buildings dark-windowed,
the sky close enough to poke with my finger.

Now, knowledge erodes wonder.
The niggling voce reminds me that the sun
does shine on the dark side of the moon.
My daughter's ignorance is my bliss.
Through her eyes I spy like a voyeur.

I travel in a rocket ship to the planet Plunis.
On Plunis I no longer long for the past.
On Plunis there are actual surprises.
On Plunis I am happy.

from Too Too Flesh, Mudfish Individual Poet Series #3, 2000
Box Turtle Press, New York, NY

Copyright 2000 by Doug Dorph.
All rights reserved

As some of you may already know, I have been up for hours already. Them there dogs woke me up at 7:45 this morning, using a sophisticated method of torture. It works like a charm each and every time and really, it is a wonder. I can set five hundred alarm clocks and still wake up two hours late, yet when that great Newf works her tongue around my face, I simply jump up and out of bed very  willingly. I am spontaneous that way.
As I fell out of bed, I caught a glimpse of my man, lying there very smug, grinning like a fool, albeit  (frantically, even ) pretending to be sound asleep. Oh how he loves it when I suffer. It makes his day. Really.

I went downstairs to let them evil beasts out, but before I managed to reach the glass doors, I have miraculously stepped into something wet and utterly disgusting. Shame on you, Dog George. You've surpassed yourself, again. Normally, I would return to bed and pretend none of this had ever happened, but this morning I mopped and  moped. Hell, I even sulked. Not that it helped, at all.
This is how my morning started and really, no wonder xanga didn't let me publish my previous post because, let me tell you, it was just bitter and hateful. Unlike this here post, of course.

Anyway, while mopping and grunting, I had suddenly remembered that M was leaving today. As y'all know, the man lives a life of fear and distress here and therefore feels he has to hide his travel arrangements from us quirks. When asked, he throws in imaginary figures ("Two, three days at the most,") hence forcing me to degrade myself into eavesdropping to his conversations with agent. Yesterday, after carelessly reminding me he leavs to the airport at noon, he said " A week at the most." Translation: two to three weeks, and counting.

Not that I mind. No, really. I am fine with it. Infact, I am so fine with it, that  when I pathetically clang to his ankles this morning, I didn't threaten to burn the Jaguar in the middle of the village, the way I normall do. No. I just pleaded, very calmly,  that he'd take me with him. I think I have grown so much, since the last time. Speaking of personal growth but totally unrelated, I've just realized how mischievous M really is, underneath all this dark, gallant charm. Dude, you know what happend last night ? I actually demanded, no, I begged him to take a few extra days and fly to London, without me. Yes, that's right. London. Sans moi. How it came about, I can not recall, but I do recall, however, that when I clang to his ankles the other night, (in case you were wondering, this is how I move about this house. It's quick and saves energy.) it had suddenly dawned on me that whilst he will be conquering London, I will rot here in the country, again. "Oh, won't you take me with you, you goon?" I cried. Y'all know that London is my mecca. I don't know what he said. I was in no condition to understand anything because, really, I couldn't believe how pathetic I've become.  Is there a moral here, somewhere? Was there ever a punch to this, er, anecdote? Are you dead bored, yet? No?

Okay. I need to post a personal note here now, so y'all back off a little, please.  
Dog George, you pee-pee monster. Stop acting as if you deserve a reward, fool. It is so annoying. Damn dog thinks peeing in the living room proves he is a mean lean sex machine or something and therefore, he eyes the buiscuit jar, as if I am some kind of an idiot. No, no buiscuit for you, dog. You are being punished. No, drool as much as you like. I am not going to break down this time.
It is time you learn a lesson, damnit. I will be stren, I will be a Rock. At least for the next 20 minutes or so, anyway. 

I am in such a foul mood, people. I can't emphasize this enough. I had planned to drive up to see my sister and kids today, but I don't think I will. In fact, I should probably find a dark cave and crawl into it until this day is over. Either that, or I should embark on a wild shopping expedition. (It sounds so much better in Yiddish.) I really don't know why I hate myself so much today. Any suggestions? theories? requests? propositions? questions? anyone?