Canned Laughter

First, thank you to all who sent e-mails, phone calls, comments and private messages regarding my last post.  Because of you, I’m back in control and feeling like myself again.

I spent the week hiding out and feeding my Spymaster addiction. I can’t tell you why this stupid game has turned me into a button pushing monkey- gimmie a treat, gimmie a treat, gimmie a treat, aww…no treat, gimmie a treat…, but obviously it is like crack to compulsive types  like me who enjoy fantasising about blowing things up.

When not otherwise involved in international assassination plots, I’ve been coping with thunderstorms, power failures, doggie seizures, over-enthusiatic yard guys (RIP my beloved Camellia), and planning for our vacation next week.

That’s right! Next week is beach week! Yay! My favorite (sshh, don’t tell the others I said that) niece is coming to stay here with or without her beau while we’re away. It’ll be good for her to have a few days privacy and good for our pets to have someone here with them. I’m not too thrilled about the beau, but what’s a cool aunt to do? I’ll tell you one thing, I may be cool but I’m also installing a keyed lock to our bedroom door and I won’t be giving her our alarm code. Her I trust. Her friends…

Today I went to Cross & Stressed For Less looking for a new sundress to pack, but no joy.  I tried on seven dresses and they either had severe gapiosis with flappy pits or they created three or four boobs where there should only be two. Feh. The worst one of all was a gorgeous maxi that clinged to every lump, bump and roll. I told Bunnie that I had no intention of wearing a girdle on vacation. She asked me what a girdle is!

What is wrong with girls’ PE teachers these days? Don’t they still tell teenagers that they should wear girdles to thwart potential rapists? Next thing you know they’ll stop telling them to keep a dime hidden in their shoes to call home in an emergency.  Tsk, tsk. I don’t know what this world’s coming to.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to transfer some more funds into my Swiss Bank account. There is a darling little Safe House in Barcelona I’m saving up for just as soon as I pay off my latest stash of high tech explosives. Just call me Mata Hari.