Windchimes

California, here he comes, gnocchi gnocchi goo

Cliff's plane landed in LA a little later than projected, but he's at his hotel there now. Got there just in time for Happy Hour. Says he knows what's important. He'll be there for a week. Not doing the Happy Hour thing, except probably in the evening when the hotel serves free or very affordable drinks. He's going to some sort of telecommunications technician school for the next week.

Which leaves me here with one less distraction during the all important final week of uni classes. Unfortunately, it also leaves me with a lonely bed and no help running those nit-picky little errands that take a pinch of time here, a dash of energy there. Speaking of which, I picked up something new and different (for me) at the grocery store this afternoon. Italian Potato Gnocchi. I picked up a packet of pesto sauce mix to go with it. It looks fascinating. I don't know why I start feeling so experimental when my husband goes somewhere, but I'm looking forward to the gnocchi.

Why am I rambling on about gnocchi (I think I'm in love with the word, too) at 2:45a.m.?

I guess because I just didn't want to quit typing. I'm on a typing jag, and tired of typing assignments.

My theory about why I like to write has been blown. A few entries back, I wrote about not ever getting a word in edgewise around here. I just perused the blog of one of my most chatty classmates. It's just as chatty as she is. Goes on and on. She must be able to type and talk at the same time. She must have a different "why," so maybe my theory's not blown after all.

I've noticed a few journal-ers listing and linking specific entries and answering questions about them. I don't have enough entries to do that, and don't have the mental energy to permutate the prescribed numbers in order to play. However, if someone will be kind enough to remind me after I've reached an adequate number of entries, I'll play. Only problem is, I can't remember who my 12th grade English teacher was. Was it Ms. Dunaway, or was that 11th grade? There was a Miss Leonard, a Mrs. Centa and a Mrs. Burnham. I think that's all of them. One teacher per year, so that should be all of them, unless we had more than one teacher one or more years and I'm forgetting. Mrs. Burnham was 10th grade. We read "Pygmalion" in Ms. Dunaway's English class. Geez, 12th grade was over 25 years ago! Much easier remembering my foreign language teachers. I hung around those classrooms a lot more.

Jagged out, tag, you're it.

J.H. Larrew
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