Sleepy Little Piggy - Tuesday 3/11/2008

This was me at 5:08 this morning when Mom called.

Usually I call her while I commute to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays starting around 4:30 a.m. It should be safe for her to call and leave a message on my cell phone, which I would leave off if I were staying home sick or otherwise sleeping in. But I forgot to shut it off when I turned in at Braveheart's house last night.

While she was off gallivanting around the state of Oaxaca, Mexico for two months, my writing group meetings changed from Tuesday nights to Monday nights. I forgot to tell her I'd be calling later.

Surprises continued this morning when, after showering, I toweled off and was wiping down the inside of the stall. All's well until I knocked the handle with my hand and sprayed myself in the forehead with a blast of water.

I couldn't stop giggling. It's nice when one has this spontaneous response rather than anger, but I think it was compounded by the fact that I was trying to get out of the house without waking up Braveheart and the Doc.

No one yelled at me to shut up. Maybe I made it!

Oh, and. Before I forget....

In the spirit of full disclosure--not wishing to follow in the heavy footsteps of Margaret Seltzer or other faux memorists--this is not actually me.

This is a stand in. I noticed her nestled in a pot of Jade plant on Braveheart's front porch as I snuck out this morning.

Whew. I feel so much better for having admitted that.

I'm not going to engage in a whole rant here about how aggravated it makes me that writers who could be good novelists have trashed their careers because they and so much of the reading public seem to think that memoir is somehow more valid than literary fiction.