march 12, 2001. There was a small crisis this morning when my landlord called to inform me that the last two rent payments bounced. My brain went off on a walk for a good 2 minutes after that announcement, leaving me muttering inanities and trembling with pre-panic. We're out of money already?? Who in hell was going to give us two months rent in this godforsaken province?? As the Boy is in the wilds of New Brunswick this week, I called the Boy's office to have him tracked down. "It's an emergency," I blurted, "not a blood emergency, a rent emergency!" I hung up, closer to panic than ever. Somebody needed to think and it wasn't going to be me. But before he could be hunted down, my brain came back. It was much refreshed from its jaunt and reminded me that I could check my bank balance by phone with little trouble. And I could always hit my parents up for emergency cash. Suffice it say, by the time the Boy caught up with me, I had written a cheque and thereby solved the problem. Now that the danger was past, my earlier frightened call seemed ridiculous, like an outtake from an I Love Lucy episode. Poor woman is stunned with big money troubles! She's in over her head!! Will hubby call in time to save their bacon? Find out! Bah. Other than that, I did my work quietly and waited for something to happen. Nothing did, except a pile of work got done and the living room got tidied. Hardly the kind of material one spins into an entry worthy of a Diarist Award, but one does one's best.