The Bozeman Police reports for Friday included the following:

€ Officers arrested a man for drunken driving on West Main Street.

€ A man was cited for jaywalking after he stepped in front of a patrol car on East Main Street.

€ A fenced-off area behind a pawn shop on North Seventh Avenue was burglarized.

€ Someone smashed a vehicle's window with a pumpkin on Greenway Court.

€ A woman driving on Hoffman Drive saw a vehicle strike a bear. The bear ran off the road and could not be found.

The Gallatin County sheriff's reports for Friday included the following: € Deputies arrested a motorist on Jackrabbit Lane for drunken driving after his vehicle almost struck a patrol car.

€ A woman located the motor home she had previously reported stolen.

€ Deputies warned a motorist on Amsterdam Road for driving erratically. The woman was playing with her dog while driving.

And the bar was...wonderful

After a delicious pizza dinner, we went to the bar. We got a table right by the window. And very near the fire pit. We had lovely European beers on tap. We saw the following things:

-a man on the street walked by wearing devil horns, a cape, and carring a live opossum. The opossum looked nervous.

-three men ran by the window wearing suits and laughing- looking like they were going to a Halloween party. Savages.

-at least three people tried to enter the bar, not reading the door, which contains the instructions "push." They tried very hard to pull. And couldn't enter. We coached them through it. Because we are nice.

-a guy walks into the bar- he was carring a guitar (electric) slung over his shoulder. It was ready for impulsive and immediate play. But he had no amp. None of us (nor the group at the fire pit) could figure him out. He went into the bathroom with his guitar- didn't close the door all the way, didn't turn on the light. He came out, with his guitar, and went to the bar and got a crappy bottle of Sessions Lager. It was hard not to huck an empty bottle at his head- I took his crappy beer fetish in an absolute temple of good beer as a personal affront. Then I sobered up a bit.

But we never figured out the guitar thing. Or the opossum.

Here's where it gets funny

For some inexplicable reason, I seem to be easy to share secrets with. That's not really a bad thing- unless it creates the following situation:

Person A tells me something. It's extremely personal and incriminating. It could potentially cause big problems in their life if it got out.

So I sit on the info. And never share it- with anyone. Because they trusted me.

Then they decide that I'm some kind of threat- because I know. Even if I didn't do anything about it. I still know. Because they fucking told me. At this point, if the power structure in the relationship (and every relationship has one, don't fool yourself) is slightly or more skewed in their favor, I'm fucked. Because they fucking told me.

It's total shit, I tells ye.

So what's a good girl to do? Well I've started doing the following. If I see it coming- and by this time, I can usually spot those kinds of things before they get all the way out- I try to spin the conversation somewhere else. Quickly. If that doesn't work, and if they have the focus of a bloody chess master, and NEED to divulge, I try to keep it light- offer no advice, and get out of there as soon as possible. Then I watch carefully. Very, very carefully. And put up as many boundaries as possible.

For some reason, they are almost always at work. And for some reason, I get to be the one. The treasure chest of secrets. And there are some unbelievable ones in there. I wish I was a total bastard and could write a book that included them all in code. Because it would be fun, in a way. To unburden myself of all of these parasitic little worms in my brain. Because never forget, I have plenty of my own secrets. And I'm NOT telling.

And harsh reality filters in

So instead of going out last night, I fell asleep on the couch. While watching TV. Because Kenga was already out with a professional group- and was supposed to come home and get me- and was delayed. The steam was out of the engine. The engine was in the garage. And the sleep rolled in like a damp fog. It overwhelmed whatever was on Comedy Central- I suspect it was South Park.

So I will do it tonight. Did I mention that this place specializes in import beer, and has all the special glassware that these special brews require. I can't imagine how much they spend on glassware in a year. But these beers are mostly on tap. There is even a special apple wine. Not cider. Deeper, richer and more complex than a pingy cider.

And because it is before noon, I will stop there. I don't need more of a reputation for being a compulsive drinker. Despite the fact that it's noon somewhere. Just not here.

Things looking upwards

Because it is the weekend. And perspective reigns. And I have slept well. For some inexplicable reason.

Generally I replay all bad things on an endless, cringe-inducing loop. But I haven't this time. Maybe I'm learning. Or maybe it's some kind of symptom of Stockholm Syndrome. I'm perhaps starting to identify with my captors. Next thing, I'll be trumpeting the virtues of the PLO from the rooftops, and crafting banners for the SLA. I remember when I was little seeing a movie with Michael Douglas in it about a kidnapper whose victim fell in love with him- the name is gone right now, and I don't have the energy to dig through IMDB for it. Apologies. I know that's lazy. But you know, the details control my life at work. Don't feel like succumbing to like pressure right now. More of a zen groove going on hereabouts.

The boy is back- which makes a big difference in my perspective. Times like this I realize two important things. I can take it on my own. No real question. Didn't fall apart- didn't break down. But the number two thing is that it sure improves the situation to have him around. Not like a crutch per se. More like a wonderful ally. And a sounding board. And a reprieve. To him, I'm not a consistent fuck up. And that is a good thing. I can try as hard as I can, and actually win with him. That's another good thing. And before I degenerate to Marthaisms, I'll change gears. Because her good things make me cringe. They take too damned much time and energy away from fundamentals that really matter.

Ok- strange dream last night about Jerry Seinfeld. Very strange dream. He was the only man in a colony of women. And he was going around offering his ...services...because he was the one with the equipment. And he forgot to bathe. For a long time. Very strange dream.

And now I must get ready for work.

But tonight- I revel in not going to work. For two whole days. We found a new bar- where I like the ambience. And the beer. And the little fire pit in the center. And usually it is quiet and almost deserted. I like that too. So...maybe.

Pass the damned knife, El.

There might be a vein or two that I need- NEED- to sever. Right fucking now.

Perfect storm (to overuse the term) of a clusterfuck of a day.

Get up and on the road at 6:30 to prep for an 8:00 meeting. Big deal kind of meeting. Big deal kind of people attending.

I get to the building at 8:00. Because it rained. If you've been reading, you'll already know that Seattle drivers forget how to drive if it drizzles. This was driving rain. So they were helpless. And slow.

Now here is the fun. I walk in to visual daggers from the boss. Why? Well, first off I'm late. Next- they reserved the wrong damned room for me. And stupid me, thought I could trust others not to be incompetent idiots. The room they reserved held 10. The meeting was for 30.
Fuck.

Then the projector didn't work. Neither did the phone. And the AV guy didn't show up for 45 minutes. Then he didn't fix the phone- said he would come back and take care of it during a break. Guess what he didn't do.

So I called another AV guy- who did show up, and was wonderful.

The coffee and breakfast was delayed by an hour- because they were confused.

And it was ALL MY FAULT. Period. I had to take the lumps- because that's the way it works. And despite the fact that none of these elements were within my control, I should've been more diligent about checking, checking some more, and generally checking again. Christ.

So it sucked. I am rather surprised given her blood pressure that the boss didn't either have an aneurism or just fire me on the spot.

But I am getting the clock is ticking kind of feeling. Like she is learning to hate my guts.

Or I am just being paranoid.

I have no fucking clue.

I am going to go do some serious whiskey sniffing. Not lots of drinking- I have to go back and face the place again tomorrow.

He's a rolling stone.

And he won't stay at home.

Boy wonder gets to go to ....Cincinnati. Lucky bastard.

Now how the hell does he get all of the glamour gigs?

I couldn't tell you. But my guess is that he's just lucky that way. Work has sent him to the following locations: Milwaukee, Salt Lake City, Vancouver, BC., Portland, San Diego, Hamburg, and now Cincinnati. I am hoping that he takes advantage of the native cuisine and helps himself to some tater tot hot dish. Because everyone needs a good food induced butt plug from time to time.

Sadly, there seems to have been no effort to get him even close to a direct flight. Poor pudding gets to spend over 9 hours getting there. I'd fire the idiot who set that one up. Because I am irritable that way.

He spent over an hour last night reviewing laws surrounding toiletries on the plane. And then had to go to the store and buy plastic baggies that were the exact size. Because we are afraid of the security. Worse than the threat itself, it seems. Will they confiscate our toothpaste if the baggies aren't pint sized, and are merely sandwich sized???

Swan song

And not the kind immortalized in all of those black light Led Zeppelin posters.

Today was Michael Schumacher's final race. Forever. For F1. And it was hard to say goodbye.

He came in 4th- for those of you who didn't watch- after coming from last place after a tire mishap. Bloody epic.

Now I face the decision- who is my racer next year? Michael replaced Mika- who will replace him? Damn. Seems like slim pickings. Little shallow rockstar drivers...Pah.

We watched with some other enthusiasts- hosted by a co-worker- in an upscale as hell neighborhood- in a house that I will never dream of affording (but that's ok- not my style anyway- it was beautiful, however)- with neighbors of equal standing in the community. They provided Brazilian food- and I restrained myself and didn't talk about Brazilians. The porno kind. Because it would make all of the other rich folks uncomfortable.

But I got to be the gearhead girl fo the group. I got to see the race cars that the guys owned. It was cool. A Cobra high-end replica. A Viper that is raced in SCCA GT1. Mrowr. Made me all happy. Because rather than sit in the kitchen with the girls discussing recipes for salsa, or whatever the fuck was the discussion, I got to play in the garage with the boys and see the cars.

So that's all.

Ah- and more from our fair state

TACOMA, Wash. -- A man accused of having sex with the family dog has been charged under the state's new animal cruelty law, which makes bestiality a felony, a prosecutor said.

Michael Patrick McPhail, 26, of nearby Spanaway, pleaded not guilty Thursday to one count of first-degree animal cruelty in Pierce County Superior Court.

Assistant Pierce County Prosecutor Karen Watson said McPhail was the first person in Pierce County to be charged with the new bestiality offense.

She said the dog was taken by animal control.

McPhail posted $20,000 bail on Friday.

Judge Katherine Stolz has set a trial date of Dec. 11.

McPhail's wife told investigators that she found her husband on their back porch Wednesday night having intercourse with their 4-year-old female pit bull terrier, the Pierce County sheriff's office report said. The dog was squealing and crying, according to charging papers.

The woman took photos with her cell phone and called the sheriff's office.

Calls to McPhail's public defender, David Katayama, were not immediately returned Friday.

The bestiality law, which took effect in June, was prompted by a case near Enumclaw in which a Seattle man died after having sex with a horse. Before the law was enacted, Washington was one of 14 states where bestiality had not been explicitly prohibited.

The night I ran away

It was a full moon.
When I drove through the canyon, it was bright enough to see the rock formations.
I was reminded of countless drives through the same canyon, in the back of my parents' car.
This time I was the driver.

I was almost giddy with anticipation.
I had been waiting for this freedom all of my life.
I didn't care about tomorrow.
I wanted to get there and just live.

What I left behind-or at least what I thought I left behind-
all the bad things that come from a fragmenting family.
all the bad things that come from being full of self-pity.
all the bad things that come from being lonely.

What I embraced-
the great, all-encomapassing NEED that circumvented all logic synapses in my head.
the idea that my judgement was the only crucial factor.
that anger was the only solution.

Upon reflection-
I am damned lucky I didn't wreck the car and break my parents' hearts in the process.
I am damned lucky that the situation was mostly a symptom, not the solution.
I am damned lucky that I grew up and got my head out of my ass. It was stuffy there.

But the full moon and canyon are still a part of me.
As is the notion that forward momentum can solve anything.
And for better or worse, stagnation is death.

The trip

When I was 5 we took a family roadtrip. It was allegedy for my birthday- and because at that age I bought into the idea that the world revolved around me- I believed them.

We took my grandfather's old 60's blue Suburban to California and Mexico. It had a matress in the back for me to sleep on. It was chock full of Montanans. My mother, aunt, aunt's sister and brother were all there. We picked up my dad and uncle in Utah, where they were doing something with the Guard (it was during the Vietnam War, doncha know- and they had to avoid the draft somehow...).

We drove very early in the morning- I remember it as the first time I was up and dressed that early. I was cranky. I was cold- it was chilly that early. I was wearing my new yellow suit- some kind of odd early 70's fabric- kind of spongy. It got unbearable once we hit the heat in Southern Utah later. No air conditioning.

I remember driving by a couple of hippies. Hitchhiking in the desert. Wearing tatty clothes. I hadn't seen their like before- not common back home. My mother was upset that they had a baby with them. In the desert. Very upset- or I wouldn't remember it. She wanted to pick them up. Said we had enough people and firearms to handle it. But we didn't.

First stop was Disneyland. I've never been back. I don't want to cut the memory of magic with reality at this age. But I hear that the re-vamped Pirates ride is worth it- full-sized Johnny Depp simulacron and all. But it was amazing. Caught up with Uncle Steve and Aunt Liz- two old, very crazy relatives (lived alone, religious fanatics who never married- took care of their mother until she died in the early 60's- had her clothes in the house until they died- in the 90's). Took them to Disneyland too. They enjoyed it as much as I did. Saw Kenny Rogers and the First Edition playing. I remember by dad being pretty happy about that. I didn't like most of their songs- depressing.

I remember loving the Small World ride most of all. Next was the whale with the town in it- I think it had something to do with Pinocchio. Then I loved the submarine that went under the lagoon. I don't think it is out there anymore. I wasn't allowed on any of the really scary rides. I don't think that the Haunted House was open yet. But I did see the Matterhorn- and want to ride it. The closest I got was floating above it on the gondola.

I got a baloon with a pink Mickey sub-baloon in it. During the fireworks show, I let it go- and cried when it floated away. I got an odd little wooden doll- allegely representing Poland. She had green hair, for some reason. I don't know what ever happened to her. She had no arms- was just a painted piece of turned wood.

The hotel had bright pink doors. I thought that this was wonderful. I remember meeting a dying Aunt- Rose- who was actually...lying in bed dying. She had a doll collection. I spent what felt like 5 minutes looking at her dolls. But I'm told it was about an hour. Not sure who to believe there.

Then we went to San Diego.

Warm fuzzies all around

That's what I love about this place. I can whine like a leetle baby, and no one is mean enough to call me on it. Seriously, I feel the support- and it really is good.

But yeah- upon more reflection, it is one of those grow up and get on with it kind of things. My mom used to tell me to "keep plugging away" at whatever. Which of course, enraged me as a teen. Because everything that came out of that poor woman's mouth enraged me as a teen. I was a rage machine.

Now with that over, I probably do tend to go off in the anger direction with very little provocation- but that is improving with time. And the whole issue of being a baby about work- well....

In my less charitable moments I see it as a sense of entitlement. That somehow, I am totally entitled to a stress-free and constantly pleasant existance. I suspect that I am not alone in this feeling. I also see it for the bullshit that it is. Just being in a room or a building with someone else guarantees that stress will happen. And if it's a passel of Dev geeks in matching sweatsuits, well, all bets are off. And if it involves a valuable parking space, ditto. And if it involves a cranky boss/spouse/checker at the store, ditto. Just learning to temper my annoyance with the understanding that I do the same damned thing when I'm feeling the pain kind of helps.

Nevertheless, it ain't easy to go from 0 to 60 in 3.5 months. And there is no guarantee that it will last. But then there is no guarantee that I won't get clocked by someone driving like an ass on the West Seattle Bridge this morning, either. And I'm not playing psychic- just trying to be rational about all of it. Big picture kind of stuff- that I usually try to avoid, because I find it just a leetle depressing.

Now I've pissed off the cat- I shut him in the back bedroom- timeout- because he's being a jerk- knocking stuff off of the table so I will chase him around the house. See what I have to deal with, people?! The little fucker...

Do I buy in?

That's the $50 question du jour. Actually probably worth more, but that's what's in the budget.

You see, the conundrum is as follows: I have a job. I love said job. It is challenging, fun, and pays decently. Not a perfect job by any means. That doesn't exist. But good enough. Now for the tricky part. It is a contract position. And my contract ends in December. There is a very good likelihood of it being extended, or of being hired on. Nice, no? Well, there is something. I haven't fully clicked into the culture. I keep feeling a deep inner resistence to allowing this thing to fully take over my life. Like I see it doing to all of those around me. Dedicated doesn't begin to sum it up. Now I don't mind a crunch time now and then, but I do mind a crunch life. That ain't gonna cut it. And that's what I see everywhere around me. And I find it disturbing. Because I don't see the payoffs. Just the stress that keeps me awake. And keeps me angry whilst battling traffic- because my life is much more important than these idiots in the other cars. And I hate that. I hate thinking that this is the be all and end all. I know better. But it's so damned easy to get sucked in. Especially when I really like everyone else. I just get the sneaking suspicion that not every temp job is this bloody difficult- and not every temp worker is trying this fucking hard.

And then there's the possiblity of the bait and switch. If they do extend my contract, I can only get re-upped for one more 6 month stint. Then I would have to either be hired on full time, or be out. And I mean out. For 100 days. Away from the company. Which would really suck. Because I can't afford 3+ months unemployed again. I don't think that these people would willingly do this to me- but it could happen. Because there is plenty beyond their control in the world.

So, do I buy in? Or do I keep that little kernel of scepticism intact...and keep reminding myself- it's not for real. Smoke and mirrors. And probably not permanent, despite my desires, and the noise everyone else around me is making...

I just want to crawl back in bed and avoid the whole damned thing this morning....

I have that Andy Griffith feeling

The Bozeman Police reports for Friday included the following:

€ An officer was called to South Grand Avenue to discuss how to deal with a dead pet rabbit.

€ A bicyclist was injured after being hit by a car while riding on the sidewalk on the wrong side of the road on West Main Street. The man refused medical attention.

€ Officers responded to a laundry mat on North Eighth Avenue and West Main for a report of a man lying down outside of the building. The man said he was "just resting."

The Gallatin County Sheriff's reports for Friday included the following: € Two people were warned for underage drinking in a car with a flat tire on Gallatin Road.

€ Three horses were reported running across North 19th Avenue near Goldenstein Lane.

€ Officers responded to a report of a car pulling up in front of several small girls on Sypes Canyon Road. The man reportedly got out of the car holding a flashlight and approached the girls who all ran away screaming before anyone could find out what the man wanted. No one was found.

Poor Bono

Skunked again. No Nobel for him. Or for Sir Bob. What's an aging rock star to do, anyway? Rather than name the album "How to dismantle an atomic bomb" oughta name it "How to seduce the Nobel committee."

Funny thing, though- rumor has it that Bono is being called Mrs. Doubtfire because he is beginning to increasingly resemble Robin Williams. There. That's my petty, mean streak coming out too early in the morning, with too little coffee in the veins, and too much kitty-inflicted aggrivation.

We all probably will wind up resembling Robin Williams in the end, anyway. So I'm not going to get all superior here. I just have a feeble hope to avoid all of that damned hair...if you don't know what I'm talking about- two words- Fisher King.

The coldest

The coldest winter on record-
The child is told, "I don't want to hear about your problems."
The coldest winter on record-
the wind blows down the canyon and snow freezes on the eyelashes.
The coldest winter on record-
The old woman teeters slowly across the street as the teenager gets angry with the delay.
The coldest winter on record-
He says, "I don't know what you do."
The coldest winter on record-
They work together to break the permafrost to bury the beloved pet.
The coldest winter on record-
The young man lies, too early by all accounts, in the grave.
The coldest winter on record-
Could be coming to a location near you.

Phil Connors says, "Don't drive angry."


I took the image from cutoverload.com. Because the kitty told me to.

Beeitch gonna call you out!

Funniest damned thing happened on the elevator on my way out of the building.

I got on the elevator to go to the parking garage with a group of 5 guys who work on my floor. Included is the sartorial splendor- the guy with the "outfits" that are color coordinated. Yesterday was the green track suit/shoes combo. Today was yellow and black. Anyway, they get on, all yammering away in some slavic sounding language. Not Russian. Possibly Polish.

There is a woman already aboard, in the back.

She says, "are you speaking Romanian?"

They all start- one of them turns bright red and says, "yes, you understand?"

"Yes. I understand. I speak English better than Romanian, but I understand." Said with a knowing look.

They sputter amongst themselves awkwardly for a couple moments more until they get to their floor, and rush off.

She starts laughing as the doors closed. She said, "guess they didn't expect that!"

Now my guess is that they were talking shit about the rest of us on the elevator- but I didn't get a chance to ask- my floor came up.

And there you have it. I work on a floor with a passel of Romanians. In funny clothes.

Buried alive

I drive every morning. All is ok until I reach the tunnels. Ah, the tunnels. One longer than the other. But I am finding it harder to cope with getting stalled by traffic in the tunnels.

Back story. A few years ago, we went on a camping trip with friends. There was a bike ride through a mile-long railroad tunnel. I had a complete vertigo moment in the cold, damp dark. My light wasn't sufficient to see the sides and roof of the tunnel, and I couldn't tell where I was. Only could see the little speck of light at the end. I almost walked the whole thing. Wouldn't be the first person, I am told. But Kenga found a better light in his pack, and saved the day. I was able to continue.

Now I am getting that walls-closing-in-holy-crap feeling when I'm in these tunnels too. It's not pretty, people. I just keep remembering to breathe. Then I remember the fire in the Swiss tunnel a couple of years ago, and the tension ratchets up a notch or two. Then I think about the crap that I'm breathing in the tunnel. Then I think about the Boston tunnel- where the ceiling crushed people. And it isn't a good way to start- or finish- the day.

Otherwise everything is fine. We're trying to rent the apartment downstairs and having a really tough go of it this time- for some reason. And it's taking up far too much time. Crappity crap crap.

But otherwise everything is fine.

Ennui

One of my favorite words. Ennui. Along with Ouvre. Ouvre. They roll out of the mouth, and make me seem all erudite. Then I speak a little more, and disabuse the world of that particular notion.

I am filled with ennui today. I need to stretch langorously on a chaise longue and drink coffee out of exquisite porcelain, and eat small delicate buttery pastries. All while wearing the finest cashmere. In shades of delicate eggshell and grey. All seen through a sepia filter.

Instead, I drink coffee from a paper cup. I listen to Kenga revving his Muzzy motorcycle in the garage. I wear a somewhat itchy warm green sweater. And there is no romance of sepia on display.

It's just a grey day, and I'm sleepy. Already slept in and took a nap. Not much else to recommend it. It is probably about time to dive into the dvd collection and find something with Will Farrell. Or John Cleese. But no Bergeman. Even though that's where I really, really feel like wandering. I've had that discussion here before. The pitfalls are out in the open, obvious, and avoidable. But I still stumble towards them.

There are quite a few backfirey noises coming from the garage. I suspect that the dialing in of the carbs is being difficult. I would go help, but I really hate that kind of thing. Makes me grumpy. Which on top of having a Bergeman day, wouldn't be good.

Pirates. That's what I need - Pirates. Is there such a thing as Jamaican coffee- coffee with rum in it? Maybe it's time to start. Jamaican Blue coffee, with rum. Captain Morgan's if available. And a piece of pineapple on top. Wait- hold the pineapple- that sounds nasty.

Fiercely brutal day

but now it's not. Technical difficulties spoiled the buzz that I had over being so vastly productive yesterday. Fucking computers.

It got sorted out, but not without drama. I cried. I shut the fucking door and cried. Like a baby. Because that is what I was reduced to. By sheer frustration.

And then it got better. Technology corrected itself, no one remained angry, and new battles were won. And I stopped crying. Like a baby, remember.

I hate that kind of day. Too much roller coaster drama hell ride. And then I need to call Kenga and get some loving grounding- reassurance that I'm not always a fuckup. Only sometimes. And then a fuckup with good intentions. Heading straight to hell, because I provide the pavement. But nevertheless, good intentions.

So tonight it was a lovely Rogue Chocolate Stout. And Formula 1 practice from Japan. And an escape from the whole bloody thing. Who could ask for more, really? Except for people fleeing toxic clouds of chlorine gas- they could ask for one hell of a lot more. So could shooting victims. And ... puppies. Puppies could ask for more. MORE LOVING.
(I have NO idea where I'm going here- kind of a free association vibe- time to cut myself off of the keyboard before it gets more stoopid)

It has begun

The Fall rain, that is. Which means that I'll be late for work. I could leave at 6 and still be late for work. Because people hereabouts conveniently forget how to drive in the rain. Every fucking time. I just don't get it. Because it rains here a lot. And they forget every fucking time.

We'll just call it one of life's mysteries, won't we? Like the mystery hut in Kentucky- or where ever it is- I read about it once when I was little. Or like the insistence on calling Racquel Welch a sex symbol. The woman is a grandmother! NOT sexy. Lovely, yes. But definately NOT sexy. (I'm pretty sure I'm going to catch crap for that one, but so be it) Or the insistence on worshipping Elvis. He's dead, people, and isn't coming back. No resurrection. None. And his music is static. No new stuff. Thus it might be time to move on. Find another CD to intersperse in the player. Something new. Just try it. It might be a good thing.

Crap. No putting it off. Gotta go face the idiots.

Ah I say.

Things are finally feeling like control is being marginally established. By that I mean, I've gotten some more sleep, gotten on top of at least 75% of things at work, done the laundry, and am currently drinking a Night Owl Pumpkin Ale from Elysium Brewery. Oh, and we bought the cat food.

The trip was tremendous. I came back with a sore back, really sore knee, and no regrets. I really don't feel like penning a travelogue- and besides, it wouldn't necessarily be entertaining to anyone but me. But it was good. No trauma. Besides my sinuses in the bar in Gallatin Gateway (only one in the region that still allows smoking).

One of my favorite little girls on the entire planet- make that galaxy status- gave us pictures that she drew. If I could figure out how to make them page sized, I would scan. And explain what she drew. They were the dreams she plans on having. One involves a spaceship. Another a frog and a snail. Another a milkshake fountain- chocolate and vanilla combined, and the fourth is an elephant giving her a shower. She even signed them. She is 5. We love her beyond reason. Ditto her sisters. And her parents. It's all smooshy with love.

Or else it's the beer. But I suspect that it's the love talking.

Other than that- not much to report. Been following the scandal du jour on Capital Hill- nothing to add. Ditto HP.

Now I will go ice my knee and watch something stupid on the tv. Over and out.

I'm not feeling up to writing much yet- slept in and gotta go do work stuff. But I'll steal from Drew at toothpastefordinner.com again. Because I don't think he'd mind. And even if he did, there ain't shit he can do about it. Unless he ponys up for a lawyer. And he seems like too nice a guy for that kinda crap.

All is well on the Western Front.

I say Good day to you, sir.

We're back

But I have no time to elaborate. Suffice it to say- the weekend was epic. Lovely.

More to follow...