I did say I was going to drabble on the On Holiday topic...

Anniversary

Poolside at the Bellagio, not yet 9 am and it's 94 degrees. My husband snores gently upstairs.

I'm slathered in 45SPF. I have iced coffee. I have two enormous towels, from the pretty cabana boys. I have a chaise and an umbrella. I have my iPod.

Relax, escape the daily grind - isn't that why I'm here? I take a fast swim in the chilly water, and stretch out, noise-cancelling headphones cranked high. I close my eyes. Relax, escape...

Piano, your voice, my voice, filling my ears, heart, eyes, memory, the Nevada morning.

Relax? Escape? Maybe someday.

But not today.

drabbling "Holiday": My favorite holiday memory isn’t of a special gift, although there are many that I could choose from, of all descriptions. It was of one Thanksgiving, baking cookies, the smell of warm vanilla and the sounds of girlish laughter filling the place. Lately, our holidays have felt a little too quiet, but maybe that’s because we know now what we didn’t then, that that was a borrowed warm moment and it would take more than pretty pink icing to sweeten what was ahead.

II In my dreams, walking is like flying. After the dreams are over, I think what a break that would be, like my own desert island built with the power of my legs and my suddenly strong back. It would be nice to be stared at because I’m captivating, or actually run on a beach. Nice to have things that are wrong with me that are not announced to every sad-eyed passerby who’s never actually spent time with someone like me.

Nice to have things that are wrong with me that are not announced to every sad-eyed passerby who’s never actually spent time with someone like me.

Oh, excellent, Erika!

Er. In a I-feel-your-pain great way, o' course.

I get that...the other one was going to be more of an account of festivity, but for wanting to come under 100 words for once. Though I've got the impulse to write back to some extent, I'm still not exactly saying what I mean all the time.

New "How To Succeed As A Failing Writer" is up.

Last time around we looked at sex. It's only fair that this time we delve into booze and drugs.

Drunken brilliance: The night can make a writer more brave, but not more sober

Gaaaaah. No mail yet from Nice Agent Lady. And, because I'm a complete doofus, I don't have her e-mail address with me. When I get home tonight, there will be a "Hey, just checking, did my mail server eat the stuff I sent you?" message sent.

Jilli, it's Monday. And is she in NY? Because publishing hours in summer, you're lucky to get anyone around on a Monday or a Friday.

And is she in NY? Because publishing hours in summer, you're lucky to get anyone around on a Monday or a Friday.

Really? Then I'll try to stop freaking out. I just worry that my mail server did something odd. (Which is not a completely unreasonable worry; my hosting company has been having some problems lately.)

Yep. Publishing hours in NY are infamous.

If she doesn't ping you by tomorrow, a "my server's been wonky, let me know if I have to resend" email should be perfectly fine.

... what I needed to do to solve all my problems was to imbibe enough alcohol to strip the paint on a barn and my tortured, unrequited love would be transformed to beautiful, moving verse ...

That Victor guy shakes a mean pen.