scrubbed

My husband E, who’s involved with space technology, was in Florida to watch the Discovery launch. “This is really cool,” he emailed me this morning. Turns out he was part of a small VIP group that included the head of NASA and Gov Bush (“You’re such a rock star,” I emailed him back), so it must have been a front-row view. Or would have been: the launch was scrubbed not due to the weather (like I was expecting) but to some kind of faulty fuel sensor.

Wow. You know that saying, “It’s not rocket science?” Because it turns out rocket science is tricky. I’m stating the obvious here, but that fact never fails to impress me. It also gives E the ultimate trump card. If we’re sitting at our desks in the home study we share, and I bitch about how difficult it is to write a novel, which of course I like to do as often as possible, E will peer around the computer monitors at me and turn down whatever dance tune he’s downloading and say, “You know, it’s not rocket science. Rocket science is hard.”

I could be lying on the table giving birth to quadruplets and I’m sure I’d hear his voice floating through the haze of pain and drugs: “You know, it’s not like this is rocket science…

And on a completely different note, I watched both episodes of ROCK STAR on my Tivo last night. It seems I am developing a crush on young Ty Taylor. He might even be replacing Bo Bice in my reality-TV affections. Bo, it was magnificent while it lasted, but I must be moving on. Let’s be friends. I’ll still buy your CD.

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