I will explain. It’s mostly because of Virginia Woolf.

I had a fever last night, I have odd little fevers from time to time, it’s weird, maybe it’s just the French germs I’m still adjusting to or it could be hormonal. Certainly not swine flu but ever since that started Vincent has been calling it pork flu which cracks me up every time. It’s just one of those rare signs that he’s not really a native English speaker; it’s grippe porcine in French. Pork flu. Cracks me up.

And yesterday I learned my uncle is dying, cancer, has about six months, the one who took this picture. He used to sing show tunes, loudly, walking through the grocery store and of the four of them singing at my grandfather’s funeral it was only his voice that I heard, so beautiful. I learned this from an aunt I was once close to, my only aunt, whom I had e-mailed because of the blog post of an uncle I was once close to, her other brother, not my dad, he died a decade ago, about my grandmother’s birthday. She turned 89 last week and this will now be two kids she’s outlived. My aunt friended me on Facebook yesterday too and I sent her my sister-in-law’s and son’s profiles and she friended my sister-in-law, I know because I got an e-mail from Facebook, and this morning I saw they are already comparing grand-baby pictures and I’m happy for them. I’m not there yet, no rush, although I am a bit baby crazy lately.

In the meantime, I still have a slight fever and I am meeting an Olivier this evening to talk about translation of his website into English, and I DM’d a different Olivier on Twitter this morning to ask him for S—’s e-mail because I need to ask her who the woman was with the great formula for organizing to-dos (UI, UNI, NUI, NUNI*) who was at the barcamp on Saturday, because I’ll probably blog about it and want to credit her and find out the source. And there is Olivier #3, whom I affectionately and sometimes angrily refer to as “Putz” not to be confused with his sidekick “Poo,” people with whom I have something resembling a professional relationship. I have lunch with him tomorrow and am not looking forward to it much except that I will make him go to that good pizza place where I’ll have an Italian beer too. The 4th Olivier, a good friend who is not French but Dutch Skyped me out of the blue the other day to say he was hoping I could help his sister, a designer in Amsterdam, to do some web marketing and that he was going to introduce us by e-mail but he hasn’t yet.

And that is just the Oliviers.

I will be talking to D— this afternoon about marketing his lifesaving new to-do list application Doris, which appeared in the nick of time and without which I might have fallen off the edge already, before he goes off for a few days’ vacation. I have 40 to-dos in that app, things I used to keep in my head, from mammogram to follow up with so-and-so to try this app because maybe I could review it on WWD to a reminder to write the May newsletter for Francophilia, in which I’ll be announcing the first IRL Francophilia meetup in Paris, which will most likely take place in June. An organized wine tasting? (Which reminds me I need to make arrangements to meet a 5th Olivier, the one who runs the wine tasting thingy. Just added it to Doris under UI.) A picnic on the Seine? An American-style happy hour at a cozy bar/café? Haven’t decided yet. It was just this morning that I created UI, UNI, NUI, NUNI groups in Doris and I redistributed many of my to-dos, which felt good, but they are still there.

And Vincent says pork flu again and I crack up again. Thank gawd for Vincent. My screen is dirty, I really have to clean it. And Vincent made the mistake of offering to make dinner which I accepted immediately to his obvious, though slight, or maybe even feigned, chagrin. Thank gawd for Vincent.

Every day it bothers me more that my brother and his wife aren’t answering my e-mails, it’s been over a week now and four e-mails from me, including a silly LOLcat that made me laugh and the news about my dying uncle, and I’m wondering if they’re OK or if they’re mad about the fucking toilet paper post, which would be really stupid and petty because it was not aimed at them, they are the only people I know who have solar panels for chrissakes, much more than you can say about most and which makes it almost irrelevant that they use good TP, so I know I’m being paranoid. My son is fine, I called him the other night, had been worried because he wasn’t answering e-mails either. It’s hard to be so far away.

My best girlfriend e-mails me today to tell me that Francophilia’s Twitter account is ranked #86 in Paris, wow! Today I need to find a video of Soan, the street singer who’s a sensation on La Nouvelle Star, the French American Idol equivalent, so I can use it for my daily Francotweet, the French culture bite I send out on Twitter to the 1000+ francophiles, and French who are curious about francophiles, who follow @francophilia. Another girlfriend suggested today that we have lunch next Thursday and we will. Love my webgirls, they’re deep and kind and magical and good for my soul.

I heard back from the editor of that major blog who looked at my stuff when I sent it to him yesterday and he said I am welcome to guest post, which is exciting, it’s a big-deal blog, but now the pressure’s on, it has to be good. I’ll do that this weekend. It’s in Doris under NUI.

And what else. I’ve already translated things today about fly fishing and art and how the French and Irish drink the most stuff out of hotel minibars. I watched a trout get caught on YouTube to feel it, to find the words to describe the process since I’d never been fly fishing. I have, on the other hand, done plenty of plain old sit-on-your-ass-for-hours trout fishing and I fucking hated it, but there’ll be no more of that, yet another good outcome of that divorce. Proust sequestered himself to get immersed in his memories, but when you lack the memories, YouTube can come in handy. Speaking of Proust, I am supposed to have started Swann’s Way, promised Donavan I would read the mega-novel with him, but I picked up Orlando instead and Orlando, born in the 17th century, found herself driving through London in 1928, feeling that life had outpaced her:

After twenty minutes the body and mind were like scraps of torn paper tumbling from a sack and, indeed, the process of motoring fast out of London so much resembles the chopping up small of identity which precedes unconsciousness and perhaps death itself that it is an open question in what sense Orlando can be said to have existed at the present moment.

And that’s where the confetti comes in. I know that feeling some days, like today, though most days I keep up just fine and even find it rather exhilarating. Maybe I’m a daredevil.

And I have not told you nearly everything and I’m only halfway through the day. This is how we web people live.

In case you were wondering.

*Urgent/Important, Urgent/Not Important, Not Urgent/Important, Not Urgent/Not Important

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