Friday, July 01, 2011

A Lula kind of morning.

Before six: found purring Madchen perched atop my closed computer. Again. Check new Yahoo. It still won't let me forward, reply or compose. Cuss cat and computer.

My eyes at half-mast. Stumble to the kitchen. Let Schatzie in. Loud meows for soft food. "Eat your dry food. Clean your teeth so they don't fall out!" Rebuttal meows. Give him tuna.

JB on the couch with a cigarette. Morning news: large company refuses to hire anyone who smokes. Yeah! That doesn't work here. Make him coffee.

Lula says donuts and a bucket of chicken are one remedy for stress. I need a donut. I need several.

Clean up body and attitude. Smear face with Origins Active Charcoal Mask to clear pores. Lie down. Compose self. Go deep. Find my center.

A comfortable 73 degrees. Swerve to miss street lump. A lost pillow. Dewy, semi-tropical Southern morning. Mosquitoes not stirring. Yet. Sun dappling here and there. No need to move fast. Grateful we aren't flooded and it isn't snowing.

Stop at Donut Shop on #61. A raspberry filled for JB and a chcolate filled for me with a short Cappuccino. Dry cleaners next. Church's Chicken closed. Good. I didn't want any anyhow. Lula can have my share.

Retrace route. Spot large garden near downtown with tall tomatoes. How? It's shaded. Temperature rose three degrees. To be in high nineties with Ozone warning. Happy July first!

Take my donut and drink to my French Corner. Nibble and sip. Open plantation blinds a sliver. Filtered sunlight decorates and dances on the table. Sidewalk on the outside reminiscent of Parisian sidewalk cafe. Except here I can set my purse down and not worry someone will motor by and snatch it. Ah, hear that? Accordion music. A Citron horn. Get out of my way, it says. A cafe patron just thanked the waiter,

Memory takes me for a stroll along the Seine careful of where I walk, dog-walkers, you know. I love to study the artists and their work, French Berets and all. I ride the subway for its wall art, and I don't mean graffiti.

On the Champs-Elysees I poke my head into a fragrance shop. Ah, a hint of rose in exotic combinations. I stick my wrist out and ask the clerk for more of the same. She replies, "Chanel No. 9, of course."

Aaah, 8 am CST. Time to go to work, without jet lag. Write complete sentences.

Lula, you made my day. Stephanie, I can't make up my mind whether it should be you and Morelli, or you and Ranger. "Smokin' Seventeen" is a hoot. Janet Evonavich, you did it again. Give us more. More!

2011 Red Convertible Travel Series

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