So, my “identity” was stolen recently. And not for the sake of sordid members-only internet sites or international travel or a weekend of Spitzering other scandalous activities that, if you’re going to have your identity stolen, would constitute Theft in Style. No, my identity was used to buy clip art and stock photography and website services, which is about as exciting as cutting school to go and get a root canal, sneaking out of the house late at night to mow the lawn next door. You get the picture.

So a personal note to identity thieves in training: when you’re done with me, at least return me with a few heavy anecdotes and a thrilling punked-up haircut. OK?

Fishing season began early this year for your Miette, with the streetside discovery of a freshly abandoned goldfish with wonky telescopic eyes, in its bowl and with a note reading:
Free Fish! Please Give Steve Buscemi a good home.
And of course I did. I found an exceptional home for him, a home where he’s […]

After a week of muscle-burning manual work and long long drives, some of us settle in with a nice cold beer. For others– maybe like me, who’s to say — it takes more that that… way more, maybe, to relax muscles as sore as these and attempt to put together nerves which have been plucked to the bone. For that reason, perhaps it’s best to just shut up and read (if you’re me) or grab a beer and listen (if you’re you) and maybe write the Pulitzer committee about considering a Podcasting category.

All week I’ve been wanting to read this to you, waking up more excited than the trashman on the day-after-Christmas, and running into my…. uh… recording studio (read: three paces from the bed) to see if it’s quiet enough…

A saw a sign the other day while out on a drive, a sign that said this: Frost Heaves.

And I almost had to stop and compose myself, because I was so deeply distressed by the fact that frost can’t heave in private (and I’m not a histrionic sort of girl), and saddened that a frost’s heave has to be announced clearly for any old asshole who happens to be driving by…

The question that’s been asked a few times of me now: why don’t I read more African writers? Actually, it’s been asked more than a few times… enough times, in fact, to warrant the sort of qualifier most accurately described as MANY.

It’s confusing, the name of tonight’s author, right? I mean, the better known writer sharing this name didn’t bother with a middle pseudonymous initial, and there’s a slight tweak to the surname, but we readers would be none the wiser, push-to-shove, and would settle back with a cup of tea and upperclass accent.

A mildly embarrassing problem when getting under way with tonight’s story, confessed in full in these lines: when I first sat down to read it to you this evening, I got caught on a raft in a sea of lexical continental drift, and over and over I stammered out the title only to have it read “Roadsome Load.” No kidding: again and again.

As I lay writhing on my sickbed I was catching up on my milehigh stack of unread periodicals, and made my way to an article about one of the leading competitors for an upcoming race for a high position of public office in the country in which I’m living.

Because, you know, there aren’t many articles written about this, which is surprising, because from the sound of things, the race for this public office is not of no importance….

A few days ago I was driving down the street behind a car which, as was warned by prominent display of rooftop sign, was being operated by a Student Driver… a sign which really wasn’t necessary, given the stammering mid-intersection braking and sideview-mirror clipping taking place all the way down the road, and I had this great idea that it’d be a real public service - a true exercise of civic duty - if other drivers could collectively contribute to driving lessons, by driving like raving lunatics around students, just to get them on their toes and on the lookout.