I'm agreeing with you.

No, no, I know. Mine was a vent. And hence the "Dear Toni" letter - she really was asleep at the switch.

In this instance, though, Mr. Post-It was adding editorial commentary and questioning things that were done, approved, stetted, stamped and approved by Ruth Cavin, whose purview all of that actually is. He was way over the line, he had no business whatsoever sending that sort of query at all, and he certainly had no business doing it at that late stage of the game.

Also, writing your questions out on post-its, sticking them to the BACK OF THE PAGE, and then not marking in pencil on the front of the page just where your corresponding query is? Dumb, infuriating and totally time-wasting. A post-it note that says "sp use/u line 18 para 6" means I have to turn the page over, count down the damned paragraphs, figure out what the hell he meant, realise that he was querying the UK usage of the "u" in neighbour - NOT HIS DAMNED JOB - and then type out a response?

No. Whether or not my editor's PA was asleep at the switch or not, this wasn't his job, and he threw timing issues at the publisher and stress issues at me.

Toni will get the hang of this, or she won't. In this instance, the snippy letter may have served as a clue-sticking.

New drabble topic!

Challenge #98 (Baby, You Can Drive My Car) is now closed.

Challenge #99 is the perfect vacation. Real or imagined, wishful thinking or travelogue. However you like.

A little off the drabble topic, but I have a vacation story that I think is funny even though it was embarrassing at the time. Trouble is, no one laughs when I tell it. Maybe it's my delivery. Maybe you just had to be there. I've given up trying to trim it to 100 words. What would make this funnier?

When I was little, Dad would sometimes make crêpes for breakfast as a special treat. We would eat them with powdered sugar, or jelly, or honey, or even peanut butter. But that ended after Dad got remarried and was no longer in charge of breakfast.

Years later, during the summer break after seventh grade, I had just turned thirteen when we went for a week's vacation to the island of Penang, Malaysia, and stayed at a resort hotel right on the beach. It was the poshest place I had ever been--even at breakfast the dining room had real china and fine crystal and napkins folded into fancy shapes. So perhaps I should have been a little more careful reading the menu our first morning there, but "crêpes" caught my eye and brought back fond memories, and that's what I ordered.

Heads turned throughout the dining room when the waiter strode in from the kitchen with a huge flaming platter held high. I couldn't believe it when he came to our table.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Your order, sah. Crêpes Suzette."

There was nothing for it but to put on a brave face, ignore all the stares, and dig in.

(fine, so I'm greedy)

If Only...

Florence, the Arno spilling along under bridges dating back to Hadrian. The Ponte Vecchio leads to busts of long-dead icons, to gelato, to Michaelangelo, to The Prisoners; the other way and the city smells like the de Medicis.

Warmth, grappa, bats wheeling overhead in the Piazza della Signori. We'll sleep the sleep of the decadent at the Hotel Grand, on the Lungarno. Tomorrow, we'll take the night train to Paris, waking at sunrise, France rattling by.

Perfection is relative, and this comes close. But for true perfection, I would have both of you, Nic and Nicky, bracketing me, loving me.

Hee. Lovely. And there's nothing wrong with greedy for a "best vacation" challenge.

I'm so overwrought with lousy vacations that I hesitate to post. Also, I'm in the midst of planning for our spring break. I don't wanna jinx anything.

I don't wanna jinx anything.

BWAH! I know the feeling...

Best Vacation drabble:

I stayed up till the sun crept over the horizon, little fuschia feet tiptoing into the lavender bleed. I'm tired, but happy, sitting on the quiet beach, smoking one last joint with Francie, before we all head into the cottage to go to sleep.

I love the last two contemplative hours of the night, sitting around the dying campfire, someone playing with my hair, making quiet jokes, talking about everything and nothing. Pulling a girlfriend into the darkness for some confidences shared, some secret thoughts revealed.

I know I'll be woken up by the smell of some truly fine coffee wafting through the heavy tropical air, music playing on the radio, and the muted sounds of my friends laughing, arguing, joking from downstairs.

I will wake up with a smile, holler "Hey, y'all, keep it the fuck DOWN!" and throw on a pink sarong over my turqiose swimsuit, brush my teeth, run downstairs. Nathan will be cooking bacon and mugging for everone. Fran will make some vicious crack about my horrible bedhead, even as she hands me a cup of coffee just the way I like it.

We'll all straggle down to the beach, feet bare and sweetly sandy, two of the guys lugging a cooler full of strawberry daiquiris, cold beer, water, and leftover jerk chicken. Kelly and Micheal will be kissing and slapping other people's asses, and I...I am happy, happy, happy to be spending the day in the sun, on the sand, in the water, in the breeze, floating in the euphoria of knowing I am loved.

Over 100 words, but I don't care. So there!

It's really nice, Erin. Worth the extra words. I can just feel the atmosphere, the camaraderie.

Definitely a nice feel, and it would have suffered from being trimmed down, I think.