Bits and Pieces

D.D. is well on her way to mastering the fine art of hyperbole. On the way home from school yesterday: "This backpack is snapping my spine! It's killing me! Look—I think it has a tiny knife, or a gun, or maybe some dynamite!"

Then this morning: "My finger is killing me! I'm dying! I don't think I can go to school!" My response: "If you die from a paper cut, you don't have to go to school. Now get up!"

The rain clouds have finally moved off, but it was nippy enough this morning that I made D.D. wear a sweater and gloves. Of course, it turned warm in the afternoon (but still no rain! Yah!), so she had to drag home a pile of clothes, but she'll survive.

You know how once you've thought of something, you can't *not* think of it? My problem is CO2. Normally, I don't give other people's breathing a thought, but once in a while, like on the bus, it will occur to me that I'm breathing in the exhalations of my fellow passengers. I haven't quite given myself a complex about it, but I might end up hyperventilating from the shallow breathing while on the bus, then deep lung-cleansing breathing when off the bus. (Typing this, I realize I sound like a freak, but everyone needs one hang-up, right? Hello?)

I like various types of sewing and crafts, but I try not to step over the line into sewing little clothes for the cats, or crocheting wall hangings with plastic baby faces. But apparently the people at the sewing machine shop next-door to my favorite bakery have no such self-restraint. It was gone from the window today, but last week they had used their power for good (embroidery machine) for evil (pot-plant cozy).

I know it can't be easy keeping an elementary school clean, especially when it has rained for 2 solid weeks. And I see the cleaning lady sweeping and mopping every afternoon when I go to pick up D.D., so I know it's being cleaned. But the smells! Normally it smells like sweaty puppies (small wonder), but yesterday eau de cat box wafted through the halls. I'm worried that D.D.'s sense of smell will be permanently damaged by the constant exposure.

Since the new Pope is German, there's been something about him in the paper every day since his election. The latest: The 78-year-old Pope is in good shape! He takes the stairs instead of the elevator! I mean, come on, people. He's German. I think they are constitutionally incapable of using elevators. 112-year-old ladies climb the stairs here. People with crutches climb the stairs here. Open a building with fewer than 8 floors and include an elevator, and people will think you've lost your mind.

L.H. has attracted his own stalker. Well, a really annoying, needy, 42-year-old (male) student who can't take a hint, such as L.H. putting on his coat, picking up his bag, saying "I have to leave", and turning off the light. True story. I had to be in L.H.'s building today to use the library, and I came across him and Stalky in the hall, and he refused to make eye contact with me in case Stalky decided to attach himself to me instead.

We are really going to Paris the end of next week (there's a state holiday—Christ Ascension, I think). I know that it didn't work out last time, but this time we have hotel reservations (confirmed yesterday), a car, a map, a guide book, and a phrase book on CD. So we're halfway there! Only, D.D. doesn't want to go, because she's heard the French eat snails. I hope she doesn't burst into tears whenever we pass a butcher's shop or a restaurant.