After the Haymarket incident this morning I thought I’d give her a few hours - eastern standard time - to calm down. Phone her at the evening and ease her “the terrorists are coming and you’re right in their way” mentality. Then the whole Park Lane thing popped up and I rather thought better of it.

At her best my mother lives in a mild state of panic. At her worst or, say, when her first born is within a hundred miles of something like this, she pretty much turns into a contagious kind of crazy. Calm. But crazy. She always says I’ll understand when I have children and I always make a mental note to ask my sister if she’s right.

For now I think I’ll just lay off the phone for a few days lest mummy dearest hyperventilate and drag me along with her.

Because, you know, from what I can tell I’m pretty much genetically disposed to that sort of thing.

Here’s to Boeing getting their bums in gear and giving us in flight wifi. Until then, I’ll have to settle for setting posts to delay until arrival.

Snapped this photo sans Jesus cloud (isn’t there always a Jesus cloud in this sort of thing?) over the Alps while managing to spill a single shot of red all over my travel buddy’s lap. It’s like simultaneously patting your head and rubbing your stomach. Only much more fun.

I can’t look at George Clooney without going all to pieces. I break out in nervous giggles and begin mild hyperventilation whenever I see him on the telly. Seriously. But I’m the same with hermit crabs and polka dots so go figure. My sister gets me completely. Jon Bon - as in Jovi - and spiders have a similar effect on her. Our brother, who thinks this attoricous, unacceptable behaviour, has warned both of us not to spout such nonsense around his wife lest she start something similar with Walker Texas Ranger.

I bring up the whole Clooney thing because I’ve just finished reading Nick Clooney’s column in the Cincinnati Post. I check in three days a week to see what he’s chatting about - I’ve a long standing fondness for the broadcaster, the things he says, the words he says them with.

It may be that he’s from Kentucky, or that something kept him there when he could have let something else take him anywhere. It could be that he just feels like home to me. The way home should feel at least. That’s a cheesy purpley thing to say but here’s what I mean.

Back when my sister and I shared a house with the rest of the family we didn’t watch a lot of television. Partly because our father took a shot-gun to a bunch of crows who woke him up one morning and somehow managed to snipe our satellite cable in two (didn’t hit a bird one). Mostly it was because that same strict disciplinarian father thought Hollywood was full of ‘bleeding heart liberals’ who weren’t fit viewing for a pair of girls. We weren’t permitted to watch anything unless it looked like John Wayne might stroll across the screen - lucky for us, The Duke strolled quite often onto AMC. My sister and I would walk the hard line during the week and at weekend let Nick Clooney, as the network’s host, comfort us with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier. There are few perfect moments in life, but watching Grant and Hepburn on a Saturday afternoon with your loveable doofball sister is one of them. And this, I’ve always associated with Nick Clooney.

A few months back I read that his wife Nina’s writing a novel. I say ‘novel’ but it may be a memoir or a coupling of short stories. I’m not sure. But I know it’s set in Appalachia. Her husband used the phrase ‘Dickinsonian Days’ to describe her family’s life not-so-long-ago in those mountains and valleys. I know exactly what he means.

Much as I moan on about it - swear and mean it when I say I’ll never go back - there’s a big part of me that still enjoys those little things that make me feel like home. Like Nick Clooney’s voice. And the anticipation of Nina Clooney’s book.

Is it twitter or flitter? Or flat as a fritter? I can’t remember. I have an account. I don’t use it. That’s what blogs are for. Right?

I’m devouring Flannery O’Connor right now. I bought a book of her short stories in a college town a few months back and carry it around with me everywhere - stop and take a bite whenever I get a chance. Commuting. Brunching. Treadmilling - back in February I couldn’t even think and run at the same time. Now I can read and have it make sense. I even use little pink flags to tab the best bits.

I vaguely remember working my way through one or two of the Georgian’s shorts in high school. But I didn’t appreciate her or her style back then. Being a victim of the whole “woods/tree/can’t see” phenomenon and all.

My writing prompt for today read: If you could interview any writer, living or dead, who would be and what would you ask them?

For me it would have to be Flannery. I wouldn’t waste time asking her questions though. I’d just sit and listen to her talk.

Furla, I called her Furla. I use to work with her. Imagine Sideshow Bob and Kyle’s Mom rolled into one big ball of fun.

She breathed on me once. I thought my hair was going to fall out.

She never closed her legs. Ughh. Sat with ‘em wide open all day…in her shabby skirt and shabbier shoes. I know its weird but I couldn’t help but stare. I was like ‘Good grief Woman close your legs!’ It was awful.

“My IQ is 172.” She said in her Im-probably-not-a-man- but-you’ll-never-really-know voice. She took some Brains of Britain quiz on TV. “I was very impressed with myself.”

I bet she was.

She never combed her hair because there was really no point. It extended in all diections like horrible red brillo. You know, those iron scrubby things you clean your pans with. Yep. Brillo.

It’s not that she was obnoxious. I mean she was, but she was more than that. She knew more than you did. About everything. And she was rude. And she didn’t let you speak. Unless you were asking about her little pony. (My little pony, skinny and boney. Sing with me.)

She took a few weeks off one Fall. Someone asked her if it was because of Ramadan. She cried for an hour. She’s Jewish.

I felt sorry for her. Really did. But I couldn’t bring myself to hug her…..all that cat hair…and her wide open legs…

She left a copy of the Da Vinci Code in her desk when they moved her into the pigeon loft. I brought it home and read it.

I waited by the mailbox until they left - two men in mustard colored tops and too-short ties; a woman in a frightful floral pattern that skimmed her ankles and made for modest - then walked across the street and onto my neighbors porch.

“Them lot’s scared to death some body’s gonna come along and win more souls than they do.” The old lady sat on a wicker sofa. Her good leg resting on a cushioned ottoman. The matching stump dangling behind it. I moved to adjust her half-a-limb and she shooed me away. “Problem they got is they can’t save a soul that’s already been made right. So they somehow got to make it wrong.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “They don’t like it cause My Lynn was a Methodist. God rest him. Poor thing’s been gone for thirty years and they still wont let us be.”

“Them two fat ones come here every Saturday. Just as sure as sugar. Today that short one,” she pointed at one of the yellow shirts as it disappeared down the street, “was talkin ’bout fire and brimstone. Like somebody ever went to Heaven just cause they was scared of Hell! Pssh.”

She picked up a sweet from a crystal dish on her lap and began to unwrap it. “I told ‘em, Now what d’I want with fire and brimstone. Ain’t that what Jesus is for? So we ain’t got to bother ’bout stuff like that? The look on their faces. Lord you should have seen ‘em scowl!”

She threw her head back and laughed herself into a fit of coughing.

“But you know them lot,” she said, clearing her throat. “That’s what they’re like. They come here all pretend charitable and so full of judgment they could bust. That’s why their bellies is so big.”

“Ms Mary - they call me Ms Mary cause I wont let ‘em call me sister. Ms Mary, they say, you’re in the dark. Wont you let us help you see?”

“I tell ‘em ain’t a thing wrong with these eyes. They been seeing just fine for eighty-five years now. But they don’t listen.” She rubbed her eyes. The ones she saw Jesus with. And let out a sigh. “They just shake their heads and look all sorry for me. Like I’m the most pitiful thing in their God-botherin’ world.”

She stared for a moment. Into a space that wasn’t there. And then looked at the bag in my hands.

“So what’re we gonna read today? I feel like something common. You got any Yankee books in that bag?”

He got married. Stayed that way for nine months. Now he’s almost not. That wife of his decided it. She was too young and he was too busy.

She liked pretty things and he liked to give them to her, but she didn’t feel the romance or the pedestal anymore. The one she thought she belonged upon. “I’m special. Can’t you see?”

Someone else did. Or pretended to. Like some men do. And she let him.

The one left behind…he hurt. Still hurts I guess. Somewhere underneath all that toughness. He doesn’t say much about it. Just things like “respect her” and “you think you know somebody”. Seven years is a long time to wait to find out you don’t.

But do we ever really know anyone? Or do we just hope we do. Hold our breath and wish for the best.

He still loves her. She’s his wife. For a few weeks more, anyway.

Old hat. But not to me. Anxious for my Snark fix I jumped on over to The Queen this morning only to realise…

“Two years; two million hits (2.5 actually as of 5/20/07); yes, Miss Snark has run out of new things to say.”

…the lovable old drunk has retired. And when I say ‘drunk’ I mean it in the best possible way; that gin soaked blog of hers has been invaluable to me these past two years. Sure, we’ve had our differences (See: George Clooney Love Triangle featuring Moi and one Miss Snark). But I’m not ashamed to say I’m devastated to see her go.

At least she us left the Snarkives. Thanks be.

For those not familiar with the graceful legend, go HERE to find out everything you need to know about, well, pretty much everything.