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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I wouldn’t call what we do ‘blogging,’ would you? I’m somewhat conversant with blogging and it would be like: ‘December 14th, I realized I was out of dental floss, so I called 112 (France’s 911) and they yelled at me.” A poet might say: The morning was pale and judgmental, the light didn’t illuminate, as much as accuse me of oversleeping. I’d just spit-out the last of my bubblegum toothpaste, when I tugged the dental floss only to be rewarded with a two-inch fragment. The sink gurgled like a drowning swimmer as I rummaged through the medicine cabinet and then the linen closet - where we store spare soaps, shampoos, mouthwashes and the other detritus of modern hygiene - but no floss. I’d started the shower minutes ago, expecting a quick entry and now the bathroom had become sauna-like. French bathrooms have these box-like, ‘on demand’ water heaters, like 2 gallon coffee percolators, that dispense hot-as--holy-hell water, the mist of which, falling on the chilled, white, underfoot tiles, created a ceramic slippery-slide. I even searched Peter and my travel toiletry bags! Alas and again, no floss. The ticking clock, that merciless, bureaucratic tool, mocked the undoing of my morning schedule. In a moment of clarity, born of despair, I picked up my iPhone and demanded “Siri, call One-one-two!” The French telephone system returns a higher-pitched, single-tone ring with longer pauses in between. Three rings later I got an answer, “This is an emergency.” I announced (‘C'est une urgence’). “What is the nature of your emergency,” a calm, dispassionate A.I.-voice asked. “I’ve run out of floss.” I blurted. There was a long pause where I could almost hear the A.I. dispatcher glitching. “Mademoiselle,” it finally said, “calling 112 is not a joke.” “Neither is plaque!” I replied - thinking of how proud my dental hygienist would be of me. “Yet here we are,” I added, before the line went dead. . . A song for this: daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_21.mp3
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