Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Not quite on target

I know unless I live in a cave with no grid connections, I have no privacy. 

Just let me look up a hotel in Toulouse, and suddenly Facebook is offering me all kinds of wonderful deals for hotels and activities in Toulouse. Good thing I like that city having lived there a few decades ago, still have friends there, never mind my landlord.

Years ago when direct mail stuffed my mailbox when I ordered something by direct mail, I would change my middle initial. That way I could trace who sold my name. I had a chart. It amused me.

Sometimes, now I'll do a search on something I care diddly damn about to see what pops up on my screen.

However, this morning I had to laugh at this missive from Lincoln.

Hmmm do I know Llara Nelson?

Is that the same Llara Nelson who burst from my womb on her father's birthday?

The one who I rushed to the hospital with too many times until we found out why she was vomiting?

The one who played Little Red Riding Hood at Living and Learning Day Care?

The one who passed the test for Boston Latin and graduated six years later?

The one who went to university in Mannheim Germany, Boston MA and Edinburgh Scotland?

The one who visits me in France when she can and invites me and her stepfather for Christmas in Boston?

The one who messages me regularly and we chat about our lives?

The one whom I have laughed with, cried with, talked with, shared Murder She Wrote and popcorn with?

If it is that one, yes I know her.

It's my beloved daughter.


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