How high's the water momma?

It just occurred to me that some of you do not have a front row seat on the river (that's the Vltava, for those of you not familiar with Prague; the Moldau, for those of you who prefer knowing things in German or who lost track of this part of the world after the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian empire). I thought you might appreciate an eye witness account of the current situation (peers over spectacles, clears throat):

The river is HIGH.

We're not talking 2002 high - I haven't been forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on my back, abandoning all my worldly goods (including some frozen rhubarb I'd gone to some trouble to obtain and preserve) and throwing myself on the mercy of friends on higher ground. (i.e. I spent the night at my friend Martha's then returned the next day, when my electricity had been restored, and yes, I do think it has screenplay potential.)

My feet are still dry.

That's what counts.

(I've created a CNN-esque icon to identify all future Flood Watch 2006 posts.)

Mornings at seven



A friend requested a photo to illustrate some aspect of my typical morning, so I think I'll send him this one of me having breakfast.

Most of the submissions he's received (he's asked for photos from a bunch of people all over the globe) feature single flowers in delicate crystal vases on breakfast trays or freeway shots from California commuters, so this one may come as something of a shock to him, but it's been a hard winter and I find I just can't start the day without a smoke and a few shots of vodka.

I have to step outside for it because my friend Sergei (pictured left) refuses to leave his vegetable cart unattended. He says there are too many Vietnamese in my neighborhood and that they're taking over the place. I say, "I don't think it was the Vietnamese driving those tanks in '68 Sergei," and that shuts him up pretty quick. He's not a bad guy, just a little defensive on the question of his country's Satanic plot to rule the world.

Tuesday

As you can perhaps tell by the imaginative title of this post, I've been rather short on interesting things to say of late.

One of the (many) other bloggers I read solves this problem by posting digital photos of her dog with a kerchief tied around his head like a little old lady in a bread line in Gdansk.

I don't have a digital camera, or I could try the same with Francois, the cat who is staying with me. I don't think Francois would put up with it, though. He's got a lot of Gallic pride.

I think the problem is that since leaving the People's News Agency, I'm short of things to mock. (I could go back to mocking the Warsaw editors, I suppose, one of whom apparently thinks there's a country in Eastern Europe called "Bulgarina," but it seems wrong when they no longer have any impact on my life.)

Oh, what the hell, let's mock them anyway! Let's mock the Big Kahuna, the Man, the Failed Wine Merchant who is apparently back in town TODAY. I've asked Stepan to live blog his visit but who knows what Stepan's version of a live blog will be. He'll probably write a letter to the editor of the Prague Post.

Saturday

Among the things I miss most about the People's News Agency (besides the Friday red wine binges, the unlimited Mattoni, and the bipolar security guard) is the women's section of the Wall Street Journal.

It almost doesn't feel like Saturday without it. I'd bring the paper home from the office (Stepan didn't mind, provided I let him skim it for good deals on Greek islands first) then lounge around on Saturday morning, sipping my coffee and reading about all the things of interest to the average European woman - Alpine ski destinations, yacht rentals, designer jewelry, art auctions, liposuction, Parisien cooking schools, European men, pork futures.

Not only am I short of Saturday reading material, I no longer have newspaper with which to clean my windows (or wrap fish, but I only wrap fish when I'm giving it as a gift, and I gave that up after the last time - what can I say, on the East coast of Canada, first anniversaries are paper, second are cotton, third are flat fish. How was I to know it wasn't universal?).

It's Saturday, though, and the only paper in the house is a copy of The Jackson County Star that's under my houseguest's litterbox. Here's hoping it hasn't come to that.

Love My Butt

I spent my 11th summer consuming Barbara Cartland historical romances by the pound. I must have read upwards of 200 of them and could quote whole passages at the drop of a poke bonnet ("Syringea's eyes seemed far too big for her tiny, heart-shaped face.") In the end, I could have written my own. In fact, I did, which brings me to today's bone of contention.

At left is a romance novel written by a woman with whom I WENT TO UNIVERSITY. At the time, she showed no signs of becoming a budding Barbara. Apparently, she didn't even consider becoming a romance novelist until she'd completed a degree in English Lit and abandoned a career as an accountant.

She certainly didn't write the masterful Deranged Duchess at the age of 11, LIKE SOMEONE ELSE I COULD MENTION. And while I'm sure The Marshall and Mrs. O'Malley is a fine book and a credit to the genre, I find it hard to believe it could be better than Love and Pumpernickel, the rags to riches story of a poor girl pig farmer (which I believe still exists in manuscript form in my Aunt Margaret's woodshed. I must look into it...)

Hair (not the musical)

I have a good friend who always celebrates the completion of any kind of undertaking (term paper, election campaign, half marathon, bloodless coup) with a "victory haircut."

I've always liked the idea, and this week I also saw the point. Having been working incredibly hard lately, I've neglected many aspects of my personal and home life. So, last night, having finally (I think, fingers crossed, please God make it stop) finished this particular assignment, I made an appointment to get my hair cut.

I went to a professional salon (as opposed to one of those back-alley butchers) and got what I think is a good cut, although I won't know for sure until I wash and dry it myself. My hairdresser got my number very quickly, though, because the phrase he used three times in describing the cut he'd give me was "something you can manage."

He then blew it dry straight, which is an interesting effect (I once had someone ask me after a salon cut if that was my "real hair?") but one I can never achieve by myself. I once asked a friend why this was and she said, "Because you can't stand behind yourself with a blowdryer."

And now if you'll excuse me, it's time for the victory house-cleaning.

Gainful Employment

Sorry I've been so neglectful but, well, I've been working. (I heard that sharp, collective intake of breath and I agree, it is crazy.)

I tried telling some people about how hard my work is the other night and they didn't want to hear it. I think this has something to do with my last six years with the People's News Agency during which I gradually whittled my work day down to four hours, much of that spent surfing the net and writing emails I never actually sent to Matt Dillon.

WhatEVER.

I have always lent a sympathetic ear to my friends when they were working hard. I am always ready with a comment like, "Oh, you poor thing," or "That really sucks," or "Why don't you just quit?" But when I try to explain how I've been typing my fingers to the bone these past two weeks, I get, "Welcome to the real world, Mar" and "Now you know how the rest of us feel," and (my favorite) "I hope your computer crashes."

So I'm going to keep a stiff upper lip and stop whining and start picking on Stepan for still having things so easy.