Machines And Flight

Nope. Didn't work, the night-long drying. Did not work.
Shitfire.
I swear to you, it didn't seem like that much water got in my baby. I keep seeing it happen- the glass tumbling, the Mac lying there, me frantically trying to make sure Owen was safe before I snatched it up.
Ah-lah.
Ah-lah.

Well, Owen is coming soon and this afternoon I'll take it to the shop. when I take him back to his mama.

In the meanwhile, I won't be posting pictures because I do not have the slightest clue how to do that on the Gateway. I am computer-illiterate although I am a flying-fingered genius on my Mac.

It is a cold morning, Elvis is crowing to bring on the sun. Mr. Moon is hunting in the woods. It is Friday. The knee is good. Let me just tell you- keeping it elevated and iced for two days did the job. Perhaps I should put ice on the Mac. No. Probably not, eh?

I am thinking of so many of you. I am hoping that Maggie May is snuggled down in a bed with Ever in her arms and that nursing is going well, that the Curry family is ecstatic. I will keep up with you all via this computer, which works just fine. It is a machine and it gets the job done.
Without pictures for me.

I am thinking of when I am in Mexico and go into the internet places and pay my dollar for an hour and log on to a computer whose keyboard is a bit different, and all around me there are people talking in Spanish, and one of my favorite restaurants is across the street and next door is the scooter rental shop where we always seem to end up to rent a moped, even though it is NOT safe, and if it's at night and we've bought a bottle of rum, we share it around with the guys in the shop and they are so sweet and they make sure we have our helmets on and I straddle that tiny bike behind my giant of a husband and we fly off down the road to our hotel and I feel as free as I have ever felt in my life.

Machines. Funny. They can issue us into our dreams, our other-worlds, our fantasies, our rock-hard realities.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon