Southern Girl...Southern World

I've locked myself in my office to write. You think Virginia Woolfe was whistling Dixie when she talked about a room of her own? No. No. No. Jane Austen never married. Hah! Sylvia Plath fed her kids, gassed herself, and became posthumously famous. ok inhale, exhale. No, a few times. There.

I've been Christmas shopping a couple of times this past week. Any possibility of being a conscientious objecter to this brutulity? No, I've never been very conscientious about anything. But it's in the prophesied in the Bible, right? Women will have pain during child labor and Christmas shopping. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not shopping for me. There just turns out to be so many things I know would be perfect for me. I did come across a tattered hardback of The Thornbirds, and that I just couldn't resist.

I returned to Blue Ridge to the little Books/Wine/Militaria store that was closed the last time around. I bought a nice Pinot Noir to see if it'll live up to all of the sudden Pinot Noir hype. I'll report.

I talked to my dad today, and he said that the new Harley Davidson he ordered has been shipped to Germany, and he will have to rent a van and drive it back to Belgium. I'm so proud of him when I think of my big, gruff dad driving around Europe on a motorcycle, although my mom's probably rolling over in her urn. How eccentric is that? And it'll probably make great stories for my first novel. Go, Dad!