Blogwatch: Ill Doctrine

Today's offering serves double duty. Not only is it a tribute to the recently-departed George Carlin, but it also will introduce you to another of my favorite blogs*, Jay Smooth's Ill Doctrine.

First, the vid.

Warning: It's a remix of George's '7 Dirty Words', so it contains... uh... the seven dirty words. Duh.


Isn't that awesome?

Now the True Confession: As you all know, I'm a middle-class MAWF. I know nothing about hip hop, or rap, or the culture of the young and cool, or being anything other than a MAWF.

But I really like Jay Smooth's vlog. And, from what I've seen in his vids, I really like Jay Smooth. A few months back he did some posts about the various goings-on in politics that got me hooked. I hate politics, but hearing this clever, thoughtful guy lay it out made it almost tolerable.

Every once in awhile he'll post something about the wacky hijinks and goings on in Hip Hop Land that I have absolutely no clue about, and I feel silly watching, like I'm eavesdropping on something meant for someone else. But I keep going back. Because I just really like Jay Smooth.

Hope that's OK.

* OK, it's a vlog = video blog.
 

Congrats

Happy Engagement Day to the Ex!

We're all gonna die!

I'm sure many of you will laugh yourselves silly over this one.


Gotta run! I'm off to dig a shelter in the backyard and lay in provisions.

Gawd, we're such pussies. I'm so embarrassed.

Let's try this again, 'k?

So I posted Friday's Rock! this morning (now with 80% more ranting!) only to come back from lunch to find out that the video is no longer available.

Grr. Oh well, f'em all. This week we'll Rocking our Friday with the Thin White Duke.


Let's Dance,David Bowie, Let's Dance

I probably should have posted this around Memorial Day, in honor of Lovely Daughter's birth. This is the song that was playing on the radio as we drove to the hospital after my water broke that morning. I was 23 years old and scared to death. A long, long time ago. You know, back when MTV was worth watching.

Ah, good times, good times.
 

And the runner up is...

Damn! Now I'm pissed. It's getting harder and harder to find the videos I want in embeddable form to Rock your Fridays.

This week's candidates were...
drumroll, please!

Robert Palmer's 'Addicted to Love'!
Nope.

The Clash's 'Rock the Casbah'!
Nuh-uh.

So that leaves my third choice. Wow, way to sell it, I know. But it really does rock, I swear.


Mercy,Duffy, Rockferry

This song is currently in heavy rotation on my radio station. I've really been diggin' it. But... am I the only one who thinks that the video is really lackluster?

Oh well.

>>>Super-ironic Update @ 1:49 PM<<<
Apparently sometime in the last four hours this video gained 'no longer available' status as well. Maybe Duffy didn't want the bronze medal? I decided to leave this post up anyway, just to remind myself how pissed off I am right now. I'll start fresh with a new post and get back to you later, 'k?
 

Be careful what you wish for

According to Evil Twin, this is 100% For Reals. She writes:

It came from the Partners for Fish and Wildlife Program Coordinator in the USFWS Region 3, which is most of the Midwest, including the Mississippi. I guess some people take their job a little too seriously.

I know, I know. We can't blame the Feds for this one. But it's still f'n funny.
 

The fly at the top

I can't remember where the quote came from -- I think maybe it was 'The Little House on the Prairie'* -- but it goes something like 'the wheel turns and the fly at the bottom becomes the fly at the top for a while'.

Anyway, this week, I'm the fly at the top! Yay, Summer Solstice!

As you may remember, six months ago I was definitely feeling like the fly at the bottom with a measly 8 hrs 25 mins. of sun.

Well, look at me now! Here are the stats for Saturday:

Saturday 21 June 2008      Pacific Standard Time          

        Sunrise                    5:12 a.m.                 
        Sun transit                1:12 p.m.                 
        Sunset                     9:13 p.m.

Count 'em up, pals, that's 16 hrs 1 min of glorious daylight. Now if we could just break 70 degrees....

For the sake of completeness, here are the stats for Tampa, where Sister lives:

Saturday 21 June 2008      Eastern Standard Time          
      
        Sunrise                    6:34 a.m.                 
        Sun transit                1:32 p.m.                 
        Sunset                     8:29 p.m.

I call that 11 hrs 55 mins. I win! At least for the next several weeks. Too bad that daylight, like sex, cannot be banked in times of plenty.

I wanted to get another picture of the sun over the post office at 'sun transit' time on Saturday but I forgot. I could do it today, if I remember. We're still at the top of the curve so the times are pretty much the same.

Want to check your stats? The U.S. Naval Observatory Astronomical Applications Dept. is there for you.

* The book, not the TV show. Puh-leeze!
 

Hyphen Guy returns

Mr. Can't-find-his-hyphen-with-both-hands called recently.

By the time we got off the phone (after an hour!) we were both so confused that I have no idea whether I helped him or not.

Somewhere along the way he mentioned that he first visited The Big City in 1929. That explains a lot, bless his aged little heart.

BTW, did I tell you he's running Vista? There oughta be a law...
 

Open letter to my ovaries

Ah, ovaries, you crazy kids. We're into, what, our fourth decade now? I mean, of course we've been together since the beginning, but it's only been the last 34 years that we've been working together.

Come to think of it, maybe 'together' is too generous.

To be honest, it seems we've been at cross-purposes from the get-go. I just wanted you to behave like all the other girls' ovaries and you steadfastly insisted on going your own way. Which, although extremely frustrating most of the time, probably prevented several children from being conceived at most inauspicious times. So thanks for that, I guess.

Later, I threw all sorts of nasty hormonal preparations at you in attempts to spur you into action according to my whims. Like a spoiled, overfed, grouchy dog, you humored me by jumping through the hoop once but that's as far as you were willing to go, cookies be damned.

It took another decade or so, but we finally settled into a truce of sorts. I would give you just enough junk to keep you under control and you would leave me alone. And that worked pretty well for some years. Yep, you lulled me into complacency and then you decided to get frisky!

BTW, I don't think I ever thanked you for that 20th anniversary surprise present. The label 'Advanced Maternal Age'? That's an honor that I blame on owe to you, completely. I'm convinced you did it purely as an elaborate mindf'k, but I appreciate the effort nonetheless. Heck, when the fat, spoiled, grouchy dog gets off the couch, even if it's to eat the pork roast off the counter, you have to give him props for moving his ass, right?

And that other time, three years later? That time I popped positive the very day Ex went in for the Big V? Oh, you wacky bitches, now that was a hoot! It didn't quite work out, but we all had a good laugh over your quirky sense of humor. Ha-frickin'-ha.

Once you got that perverse streak out of your system (and after some creative pharmacology) we managed to settle back into something approximating normalcy. Last year was tough, I know. I admit: I got kind of paranoid about the possibility of appearing on the cover of The Enquirer as The World's Oldest Preggo and I panicked. I offered you the junk you used to crave, but you told me in no uncertain terms that you were done with that shit. And, oh, how you make me pay for that! I'm sorry, but I just didn't trust you. Can you blame me?

But that's all old news. Now I sense you're getting tired. Oh, I know you're not done yet, and I don't believe for a second that you'll go gentle into that good night. I'm sure you've got plenty of hell left to raise before we call it quits.

You know, as inconvenient as it's been, I kind of admire your 'F-all-y'all' attitude. But if you even think of trying for World's Oldest Preggo, your collective ass is mine. I swear I'll take you out myself with a grapefruit spoon.

Word.
 

One-sentence Sunday

Spending the summer with Dad may have been my idea but the reality of packing up Young Son's clothes is proving to be surprisingly difficult.

It seemed like a good idea at the time....
 

Jus' wan leetle meent? Ees waffer-theen....

You know that one 'teeny little spot' that had to come out? Well, I don't know how the Official Surgical Oncology Guidelines define 'teeny', but when Mr. B pulled the bandage off last night for his first re-dressing since the procedure on Wednesday... yikes!

The crater is now bigger than it was originally, probably over 1.5" in diameter. I really should measure it, because it may be closer to 2". Doesn't sound like a lot, but draw a 2" circle on a piece of paper then cut it out and sit it on top of your head. All of a sudden it gets freakin' huge.

sigh...

Even though this last procedure should take care of the remaining rogue melanoma cells one and for all*, we're both feeling rather discouraged right now. The goal of a healed wound that doesn't require 10 minutes of fussing every night and constant ball cap wearing in public is even further away than when we started with the first excision a month ago. A month ago today, in fact. Fancy that. Yeah, it's a small price to pay to be melanoma-free, but still.

Plus, all reports indicate that it's fucking annoying and it hurts. And that shit gets old real quick-like.

* Well, you know what I mean. Once and for all... knock wood.
 

Bittersweet

I just plain dig this song. I can't dredge up any particular associations or traumatic memories to go along with it; it's just the pure essence of Fridays Rock! plain and simple.

Give it a go, would you?



This was what, about 10 years ago?

Sweet. No, wait, make that bittersweet.
:)
 

Blogwatch: Cooking the Books

Full disclosure: I'm shamelessly promoting one of my own blogs.

Cooking the Books: The Cook-Through Blogroll is my new baby*. I've been enjoying Carol's French Laundry At Home blog, which led me to this WSJ article about 'cook-though' blogs, which turned me on to even more cook-through blogs... well, you see where I'm going, right?

I couldn't help it. It was too Shiny; I was powerless to resist. I either had to pick a cookbook and start my own cook-through blog, or... make a blogroll of all the cook-through blogs I could find. Guess which one I chose?

Hint: Option B requires much less shopping and chopping. And, oh yeah, cooking.

Anyway, if you're interested in living vicariously through someone who is blogging about cooking their way through an insanely difficult cookbook, visit the Cooking the Books and take your pick. They're all deee-licioussss!

* But you'll always be my first and I love you best. Don't ever forget that.
 

This guy hates me

Snapped this one on the way home from work the other day. This fellow seems quite opinionated. Let's see what we can learn about him in the 30 seconds before the light changes.

Cheese Louise, asshat -- hate much?
This is why bumper stickers should be outlawed.

Plus, I really dread Young Son asking 'why that car has a cartoon of a boy peeing on it'. I might have to give in to my baser instincts and tell him 'Because they're 12*.'

* That's my new favorite phrase, thanks to Carol @ FLAH. :)
 

Security risk

A customer asked if he would have difficulty taking our software CD through airport security.

Uh... not unless you use it to reflect light into the TSA agents' eyes then, while they are writhing on the floor in agony, run through the metal detector with your shoes on carrying a larger-than-3-oz bottle of liquid.

I worry about our customers sometimes. I really do.
 

Great balls of fire

Scene: Driving to work this morning. On the radio, the traffic announcer was going on and on about the obnoxious traffic over in The Big City, blah, blah, blah....

All of a sudden my ears perk up.

'...that big white ball of fire in the sky is causing all sorts of problems.'
OMG! WTF? Meteor? First Contact? Nuclear Armageddon?

Nope, just the sun. It finally came out yesterday and we apparently have no idea how to drive with that blinding white light in our eyes.

Ah, the sun. Yesterday we enjoyed another Room Temperature Day; the first in a few weeks. I'm encouraged. We may just get summer after all.
 

One-sentence Sunday

Q: What do you get when you cross One Sentence, NaBloPoMo, and writer's block on a Sunday eve?

A: One-sentence Sundays @ AIWJT, of course.

Welcome! You're just in time for the inaugural edition.

Young Son's fresh new summer haircut continues the tradition of little boys' summer haircuts throughout the ages; I think it's cute and he thinks it's way too short.

Got one of your own? Leave me a comment telling me a story from your weekend in one sentence.
 

It ain't over till it's over

It took three weeks, many phone calls, and a fair amount of head-banging but the Large, Highly-Regarded Medical Institution finally coughed up Mr B's lab report. And the results were good. They found one more teeny little spot that has to come out and that'll happen next week.

Then I guess we're done. His regular doc told told him the other day that he's pretty much cured. So we can just go on about our business, right?

Except for that constant looking-over-the-shoulder thing.

Is it every really over once you have something like that? Even when they tell you it's gone?

I'm guessing the short answer is no.
 

You Can't Hide

I tried, I really did. I wanted with all my heart to bring you a video of Maktub's 'You Can't Hide' on this Lucky Friday the 13th Edition of Fridays Rock!

But apparently my luck sux and it ain't to be. So I cobbled this together as a pale substitute.

It may take a minute or so for the embedded player to download. If it ever does, click on the 'Play' button to hear a short clip; click on the song title to go to the imeem site to hear the whole thing.

Give it a go -- your efforts will be rewarded, I assure you.

Yes, it does indeed rock, no?

Now I can tell you a little story about my oh-so-tenuous-as-to-be-nonexistent connection to Reggie Watts.

Some four or five years ago, Maktub (a local band?) had just released their Khronosalbum. 'You Can't Hide'was getting heavy airplay on my favorite local radio station. I fell for it, especially the lead voice*.

At that time, Lovely Daughter was in college in The Big City. Her boyfriend was a couple of years older and had lived in The Big City for a while. He had lots of friends in The Big City, one of whom happened to be Reggie Watts. Who happened to be the lead of... Maktub! I freaked out** when I learned this.

Even better, LD actually met Reggie Watts! I pestered and cajoled and bugged LD to get me an autographed CD, and I finally got it. Happy Momma.

I later learned that Reggie does all sorts of things, like stand-up. And this:


Reggie Watts: Out Of Control from Jakob Lodwick on Vimeo.

I admit, I've kinda developed a teeny weenie old-lady crush on Reggie. Don't tell him, 'k? It would probably totally gross him out. I don't know how old he is, but I guarantee I am at least old enough to be his babysitter, if not his mother.

All inappropriateness aside, this song is guaranteed to Rock my Friday! And hopefully yours too.

* What can I say? I'm a sucker for a strong, distinctive, flexible voice with a wide range. Isn't everyone?

** Yes, I am apparently 15 years old inside. But you knew that already.
 

Out of the mouths of Exes

Ex's name for my blog: WTF is she thinking?
That phrase surely was worn into the very fabric of his brain over the course of our 30-year relationship.
 

Hello, my name is...

I spotted this t-shirt* online somewhere and am loving it**.


What? Not ringing a bell? C'mon, you know, Princess Bride? Six-fingered man? Oh hell, you're hopeless. Go watch this.


Princess Bride

Now do you get it? Ain't that some good shit?

A key component of my entirely arbitrary and unquantifiable method of ranking movies is the number of memorable quotes. This film ranks pretty high. I think The Jerk may be the all-time winner, although The Big Lebowski is a contender, and f'n hlarious, to boot. (Warning: that last link to YouTube contains a lot of f'n language.)

* I wish I wore t-shirts or ball caps or put bumper stickers on my car. There are so very many great ones out there on the interweb and I can only house so many coffee mugs and refrigerator magnets....

** I am loving it so much that I went out and bought the DVD, even after having previously counciled myself that there would be no more buying of movies on DVD. I mean, why buy DVDs? Isn't that why God invented Netflix? But I did it anyway. It's that good.
 

One for the record books

I guess I've gotten pretty accustomed to the bizarro behavior of some of the customers who call for tech support -- I haven't had anything blogworthy from the tech support arena in a while. Until now.

Last week I had to help a gentleman find the hypen key on his keyboard.

I shit you not.

What amazes me about this is that I am fielding support calls for a piece of software used primarily by sciency-type people. OK, not all of them are computer-savvy, especially the older guys, but c'mon! The friggin' hyphen key? Sweet-jesus-on-a-stick, deliver me.

At first I though he might have some sort of oddball non-standard keyboard. Nope, after a brief discussion we tracked the sucker to its proper place next to the zero.

He was thoroughly grateful for my assistance and he thought I must be quite the technical marvel, to know all of this horribly confusing stuff. My protestant ancestors, of course, made me act all humble and modest and shit, but in my heart I knew he was right.
:)
 

Great Expectations

Getting a "do-over" with a second 'only' child is one thing, but getting a another shot at the dating game after some decades off the playing field is a ball of wax of a whole different color, let me tell you. (And it's every bit as dicked up as that metaphor.)

Firstly -- you may wish to sit down for this -- dating in one's late forties is not the same as in one's late teens. Hard to fathom, I know, but things have changed a bit since this and this and this. Unfortunately, one thing that didn't change is my level of dating experience. Scary, huh? A 17 yo trapped in the body of a 47 yo... yeah, no problem I'll sit here and wait while you go get a pencil to stick in your mind's eye.

Here's another newsflash: Dating experience is not the same as marriage experience. Those credits don't transfer one-to-one.

Let's just say I wandered into the arena with a few handicaps.

Probably the hardest thing to deal with has been something I fondly* call Great Expectations. I had my tidy little mental model of the way people (read: guys) are supposed to behave in the early stages of a relationship. Through forty-some years' experience watching movies and reading books and magazines and a nearly thirty-year tour of duty in a failed, yet not completely unsuccessful, Long Term Relationship, I thought my expectations were pretty up-to-date, well-informed, reasonable, and realistic.

(In case you missed it, the key word there is "thought".) Snort! Ha! I kill me!

In those early, heady days with Mr. B there were behaviors and language I expected to see and hear but didn't. Those unmet expectations generated quite a bit of angst**, as unmet expectations have a tendency to do. Obviously failings on his part, right?

As it turns out... not so much, or at least not exclusively.

Reading over our early emails with the benefit of a year of Mr. B experience, I can see things now that I couldn't then. Some really wonderful things. It blew my mind. And, as a bonus, it made me feel like a bit of a jerk.

But how, oh how could my expectations have been so out of whack?

With the benefit of my 20/20 Hindsight Goggles^TM (patent pending), I can see now that I'd been set up for a perfect storm of cluelessness. In addition to using a seriously flawed model*** to generate my expectations, I was trying to apply an outdated Extroverted Feeling Guy Universal Translator to an Introverted Thinking guy****. Combined with my atrophied dating skills? Well, there's yer problem, lady; your Instant Angst Generator is on.

Even worse, while I was flailing and wailing about what was or wasn't happening, I missed out on being fully present for, and almost bailing out of, the beginning of something wonderful. Somehow, despite myself, I managed to catch hold of the caboose of the clue train as it whizzed past.

Lessons learned? Lots, and I know that there are still a butt-load^# of expectations left to wrestle into submission. But hey, reasonable expectations in an LTR? Now that's something I know all about! Double snort! Gag! Cough! No, I'm OK, really.

Should be a piece of cake... right?

* Not really.

** I'd like to say the support ticket on this issue has been closed... but I'd be a-lyin'.

*** Yes, I'm looking at you, Popular Culture and Media.

**** Even if you don't speak the language, I'm sure you get the point. It's a lot like using a faulty Hungarian phrasebook in a tobacconist's shop. Say no more, say no more.

^# Larger than a shitpot-full but smaller than a fuck-ton.
 

Big night out

Pizza for babysitter & kid: $17

Parking @ the ferry terminal: $7.50

Two fry baskets with 4 types of flavored mayo* and beer at the Belgian fry house near the ferry terminal: $25

Ferry ride: $0**

Cab to the theater because the ferry was late getting in: $10

1.5 hrs of Tony Bourdain***: $75

Gelato**** on the walk back to the ferry terminal: $7

Ferry ride: $6.75

Babysitter: $40

Total time for a 1.5 hour show: 6.5 hours

Total fiscal damage: $188.25

Two crappy pix of Tony Bourdain on my cell phone:

Priceless!
* Wasabi/garlic, red pepper parmesan, sweet chili, and sweet spicy ketchup. Mayo-licious! OK, the last isn't mayo. But it could have been.

** Eastbound is free.

*** :)

**** It was amazing. I had a scoop each of pistachio and caffe mocha, Mr. B had caramel and coffee. Burp!
 

Cleaning house

We're gearing up to clean the house today. That's why I'm sitting on my ass writing this post, of course. It's called stalling, people.

For most folks, cleaning is a chore but no big deal. For me it's a deal all right; a Big F'n Deal. I clean only under duress and usually at the last possible minute. There generally has to be a reason -- I rarely do it just because it needs to be done. It's just the way I am, and pretty much always have been. Needless to say I have a high tolerance for clutter; at least my own.

Today we're cleaning up because we're going out tonight* and I've got a new babysitter coming over for Young Son. Yeah, I'm a pig, but I've had enough training to know that you ought not to inflict that on people you would like to come back.

This brings to mind an event many, many years ago, when Lovely Daughter was about the age Young Son is now. I had decided it was Cleaning Day.

Mom: OK, up and at 'em. We're going to clean up today.

LD, looking up from the TV: Why? Who's coming over?

Out of the mouths of smart-ass babes, eh? As they say, 'it takes one to make one'. I sat down next to her and explained in all seriousness that normal people clean regularly; the way I keep house is not recommended. I figured she was going to eventually learn that I am a slob anyway, so why not hear if from me? Might just save her a few bucks in therapy. Which, since she just turned 25, should be rollin' around any time now....

* We're going to see Tony Bourdain! Whoo-hoo! I'll be in my bunk...
 

I don' wanna work

I just wanna do this (see below), over and over and over again.

You've had fair warning, now shut the door and get ready for this bang-tastic edition of Friday's Rock!


Bang on the Drum, Todd Rundgren
(I was going to put the links here but Amazon is actin' kinda funny. Maybe they're all off bangin' on the drums or somethin'. Not that there's anything wrong with that....)

Gawd, what a great song. If this doesn't rock your Friday to the n^th degree, then you're beyond any aid and comfort I can render, my friend. Go tell your boss I said you need to take the rest of the day off.
 

For your edification

Evil Twin sent this in just for you:

I thought that maybe your viewing public would want to see what a puta doll is. They may be misled into thinking it's a cute little Lolita-type toy for children, when actually they resemble sullen, creepy, flat-chested ho's in bike shorts and ballerina flats. (Is that a necklace, or painted cleavage?)

Looks like a necklace draped cunningly over the painted cleavage to me. Hey, maybe I can use that trick next time I dress like a grown-up for an evening out with Mr. B.

But would I look like a sullen, creepy, flat-chested ho even sans bike shorts and flats?

I love my puta doll. It's almost enough to make me venture into the hell hole that is my garage to find it.

Almost.
 

Please tell me it isn't so.

Yes, it's so. There it is again -- that sound!

Ick.
 

ад да!

It means 'hell yeah!' in Russian and it's an palindrome. Isn't that the coolest thing ever? I even double-checked it in Babelfish to be sure I wasn't saying 'go away and stop reading my blog' or something obscene like that.

Figuring out how to get my keyboard to type the Cyrillic alphabet was a bit of an adventure. No, I can't tell you how to do it 'cause I'm not even sure what I did to finally make it work. All I can say is that I am incredibly relieved that I can still type English. Црщ лтщцы? Ш ьшпре рфму утвув гз ыегсл шт Снкшддшс-рудд.*

Gawd, I love me the whole internetweb-thingy....

* That would be: Who knows? I could have ended up stuck in Cyrillic hell. Nope, not Russian; just English typed with my keyboard in Cyrillic mode.
 

Goin' for it

I feel so guilty posting this but, as you probably know by now, guilt is rarely enough to stop me.


Evil Twin sent me this recently, indulging my new-found penchant for goofy warning signs. She writes:

Here is my favorite road sign. It's near the border at San Diego. I was going to Tijuana (where I bought the puta doll*!), and I actually got knocked down by a few guys running for the border, followed by a rather hefty Customs agent. I used to bounce better in those days.

The photo was circa 1989, taken on I-5 near San Ysidro, CA. Don't know if it's still there.

Disturbing + Humorous + True = Priceless! What more could one hope for in an official warning sign?

* Yep, she bought me a paper-maché puta doll. I so hope I still have it in a box somewhere... it was awesome.
 

For want of a shoe

Couple weeks ago I was frantically trying to find a pair of nice, non-matronly black pumps* for my trip Back East. It got to be Thursday, less than 48 hours before departure, and I hadn't found anything reasonable at the mall. And did I mention? I hate to shop. I especially hate to shop when I'm in a hurry. And I'm always in a hurry when I shop because I put it off until the last possible moment. Because I hate to shop.

(More than once in my life, I have found myself running through the mall trying to find a dress to wear to an event that very night. Shameful, but true. I'm pretty sure I'm female but I'd never be able to prove it based on my shopping skills. I am a complete disgrace to the female mega-shopper stereotype.)

Anyway, Mr. B was off from work that day running errands. I asked if he could swing through the Decent-Quality Discount Store to see if they had any sort of selection. He, being the agreeable sort, agreed.

He called me back a short while later to report that they did have a promising selection. And, by the way, he didn't feel at all self-conscious about walking through the women's shoe department checking out the heels.

I laughed so hard I almost PMP. It never even occurred to me that it might look a bit... suspect for a 6'4", 200+ lb, 50-something guy to be casually strolling through the women's dress shoe aisle checking out the heels.

I told him as long as he didn't lean over to sniff them or ask the clerk if they came in a size 13, he probably escaped detection.

What a good sport, eh?

*With less-than-3" heels, closed toe, of non-man-made materials -- ha! Apparently it can't be done in my neck of the woods.
 

Day of rest?

I'm supposed to start working on clearing out my garage today. I've been 'supposed to start clearing out my garage' for six months now. Instead, we're going to The Big City to visit the hugastic Asian market.

Oh well. Maybe next weekend?