When Thomas Haynes Bayly wrote Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I think he missed the mark by about a foot. The truth is that distance and time make it easy to shove that fondness onto your heart's back burner, where it can simmer with very little attention for years.

Then comes Something Big, and all the sudden it's not on simmer anymore; it's coming to a boil and you feel a deep need to close that distance and pop that absence like a zit on the buttocks of your existence. Once you do, you suddenly realize that you're missing something so much it almost hurts, and you were using that back burner to keep from scalding yourself.

Mixed-metaphorical enough for ya? I wax not so much poetically or eloquently as I do in a mumbling an incoherent way...

I know I missed my parents and sisters and nieces and nephews, but until I went and popped that zit, I didn't know how much. And I certainly didn't know how much more I would miss them when I had to leave for home. I am the Evil Bad Seed--I hadn't been back to see them for 13 years...yes, I am painfully aware that's more than a decade. It's not as if it was intentional. Other Life Zits kept popping up: health issues, money issues. Money and health at the same time. We'd tell ourselves in January that We Will Go Forth To Texas This Summer, but then we'd wind up owing a fortune in taxes or we'd have to move, and there was the whole Doctor Hop when I was dx'd with FMS, and then the whole brain tumor thing... We had reasons that weren't just excuses, but it didn't change the fact that I wasn't seeing my family.

And then I did. One phone call had us scrambling for plane tickets and a car reservation, without much thought how we'd pay for it. It wasn't Can we afford this? but How soon can we get a plane out?

And then in waves it hit me. I missed them. I missed them before, but I really missed them.

Other things hit me, too, things I knew but didn't really know. My sisters are pretty cool people. They're generous and kind; we could have stayed with any of them for the week (sister #2 drew the short straw, heh) and it would have been comfortable. They're deeply caring and loving; for that week someone was always sitting with our mother, not out of a sense of have-to, but a personal sense of need-to and of want-to. And trust me, there's a world of difference there. In those moments where the child becomes the parent, even on a temporary basis, they were right there, doing anything they could for my mom.

I got a very new sense of my siblings as adults, and ya know what? They turned out pretty good. And that's no small feat, and a testament to how we were raised, I think.

And my dad...he is so adorable you'd pretty much just want to drink him in like a blue raspberry Slurpee. He turns 80 next month. Eighty. There's only one person older in the entire family tree, I think, and it's not by much.

My mom is doing quite well it seems; she's getting up on her own and shuffling around the physical rehab ward, and she sounds really good on the phone. But she still needs to eat...apparently the hospital food sucks donkey balls.

There won't be another 13 years before I go back; summer won't be allowed to fade into autumn before we return, I don't think (so keep your fingers crossed that I sell my car, and that the owner of our house doesn't decide we need to move...) I don't want to let time and distance make me shove those feelings onto the back burner again. I want to miss them as much as I do right now. Missing them keeps them right here.

If you can't be around the people you love, missing them is pretty decent.

At First I Thought It Was A Joke...



I'd like to see someone actually ride it... 410 cubic inch engine is what, 6500cc? (Math is hard...) 350 hp, more than some cars. It's not even a one off custom, the guy plans on making several, including with a sidecar.

I know some guys have that "bigger is better" mentality, but I'm not sure this would be a fun ride, especially on roads with curves...

We're back home... My mom is doing all right for now; she's still in the hospital recovering, but they've got her up a little bit each day, and she looks and sounds a whole lot better than she did a few days ago.

Today's Think About It For Her... EAT. She's not eating nearly enough. Even if she eat junk food, she's gotta EAT...

Still in Texas... Thanks for all your thoughts & prayers--it seems to be working. My mom had a heart attack, and it's been a seriously up and down week with her case being so complicated that we didn't know left from right for most of this week, but she started perking up a whole lot yesterday, and today they were able to do a heart cath, and they placed a stint in the offending artery.

While the docs couldn't give us a money back guarantee on the procedure, that was really good news; they didn't start the cath and then have to haul her in for open heart surgery.

Now the concentration is her kidneys; they used as little dye as possible during the cath, but we're waiting to make sure there are no complications there (it's been a concern this week) so if y'all could keep on with the thoughts and prayer, I'd appreciate it. Just think Pee...:)

New letters are up at Dear So And So... Yep, it's a tad early, but tomorrow the Spouse Thingy and I are headed for Texas. I'm taking a laptop, but I'm sure my getting online will be hit and miss.

Mondo big favor to ask...please keep my mom in your good thoughts and prayers. She's in the hospital and really doesn't want to be there, so if you could toss a good wish or two her way so she can get out of there ASAP I'd appreciate it.

'Splain to me, Lucy, how it could possibly be fun to egg someone's car...?

And hurray for neighbors who take the time to wander the 'hood looking for egg victims and letting them know before there's time for a whole lot of damage to be done. The car was parked at the side of the house, and I might not have noticed for a couple of days...

The other day the Spouse Thingy and I were out for a short ride and stopped at a new McDs attached to a new gas station, because it was 99 cent McNugget Day, and who can pass up cheap, greasy, cheap chunks of overcooked processed poultry? OK, it could have easily been 99 cent Big Mac Day or 99 cent Happy Meal Day...we'd been riding and we were hungry, and it was there.

Convenience rules.

When we came out, there was a white van parked next to our bikes, and as we approached the driver jumped out to ask questions about my little Rebel; he seemed incredibly excited, it was apparently the perfect bike for the Harley owner to step down to from his Sportster (which was in the shop for the 3rd time in a many weeks...) He was so taken with it, I did as I've done with other excited people: I let him sit on it.

I thought nothing of this--other than I must have a pretty cool ride--until I talked to Murf.

Murf: Guys don't do that.
Me: Sit on each others' bikes?
Murf: Best way I've hear it put is that asking a guy to ride his bike is like asking him to ride his wife. It just isn't done.
Me: I don't have a wife. And besides, all he did was sit on it.
Murf: You don't ask a guy to sit on his wife, either.
Me: But if he offered to let you sit on her...?
Murf: [quiet for a long time] What part would I be sitting on?

Men...

Because He Said I Could Share This...
...and Dang, I Wish I'd Had A Video Recorder

So.

Monday was the Boy's 24th birthday, and after allowing us to take him out to dinner and then getting his presents, he went out with his friends to really celebrate. Because, truly, it's not Happy Birthday until someone pours the first beer. Or Long Island Tea.

I went to bed around 12:30, but tossed and turned for over an hour and just couldn't fall asleep; right about the time I was going to give up and get up, I heard a car door outside, followed a minute or two later by what I thought was the door opening.

Good. He's home.

But then something didn't feel right. I slid out of bed and padded down the hall, where I could look over the banister and peek downstairs. I didn't hear any footsteps, no sound coming from the bathroom, so I looked at the door--

--and there he was, outside, his forehead pressed to the glass window. Now, our front door sticks sometimes, so I assumed he just couldn't get the latch to spring, and went downstairs to open the door for him.

By the time I got there, he was bent over, trying to pick his keys up from the ground. I opened the door and there he was, weaving slightly as he stood there, keys in hand.

"Are ya drunk?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Yessssss."

"How'd you get home?"

"Drew."

"So your car's not here?"

"Nope."

I then asked if he needed help getting into his room, and as he stumbled over the 2 stairs that lead into the hallway he said, "I'm fine." He went into his room, and I went upstairs, where I told the Spouse Thingy the Boy was home and very, very, very drunk; I went into my office and turned my computer back on because I really was awake by then. And yes, I was laughing at the Boy. He was not just three sheets to the wind; he was toasted, $hit-faced, and wasted.

A few minutes later, something again didn't seem right. It was too quiet downstairs. I went down; the Boy was not in his room. Nor in the bathroom. A shadow moved past the front door...I went back upstairs and told the Spouse Thingy I thought the Boy was wandering around outside.

And he was. He still had his house keys in hand, and was over by the convertible, which is parked on the side street. I called out his name and he stepped onto the grass, looking very confused and not quite sure what the problem was.

"Why are you out here?"

"Sorry." He stood there with keys clenched between fingers, leaning a bit to the left.

"Get inside," the Spouse Thingy said, to which the Boy replied, "Sorry."

The Spouse Thingy took him by the arm and guided him in, where in Rainman-clipped-tones said "Sorry" as they went over the two stairs, "Sorry," as the Spouse Thingy asked if he needed help, "Sorry" as he turned around. I watched, laughing behind a hand held to my mouth.

Then he either tried to sit on the edge of his bed or was just turning around; either way he missed and wound up on the floor. "I'm fine," he said as he was helped up.

"How much did you drink?"

"Mmmmorrre than I should have..." His longest sentence of the moment.

"Do you need help getting into bed?"

"I'm fine." A bucket was brought to his room. "I'm fine." Spouse Thingy went back a few minutes later to get his keys (while his car was not home, we wanted to see if he'd dropped his house keys outside.) "I'm fine." A few minutes later he was seated in a chair in his room... "I'm fine."

We were so sure Rainman was fine that we barricaded the front door and hid all the keys to our car and the motorcycles, and I sat in the living room until 4:30 in the morning, just to be sure he didn't decide to wander around the neighborhood some more.

I crawled back in bed, laid there and listened for another hour, and finally drifted off. The cats graciously allowed me to stay in bed until 10 a.m., after only getting 3 hours sleep, and none of those hours were in a row.

Did he have a hangover?

Ever so slightly.

Did he remember?

LOL Hell no. He was surprised he woke up in his own bed, relieved to find he'd had a ride home (though not from Drew, apparently...), and somewhat amused that the front door was blocked. He has no recollection of what he was doing after 11:30 on the night of his birthday, though today he was informed that he and his friends were at the same bar at 1 a.m. they'd been in at 11:30, he'd worn a balloon-crown and had a balloon-sword (which he popped), and when his friend Nestor dropped him off at home, he got out of the car and walked up to the tree in the front yard, where he tentatively held out a finger to touch it.

I think it's safe to say he had a very good birthday, though he wishes he could remember more of it.

I bet he doesn't drink that much again.

And you can bet we'll give him chit about this for years to come.

Dear...You,

I write letters. Mostly, I write letters to people I see during the course of my day, people I will likely never see again, nor speak to. These are largely for my own amusement or venting purposes, but I often wedge them into my blog.

Often when I do, I get an email or two.

I've got tons of stuff to write to people about, but they would see themselves if I put it on my blog.
I don't have a blog, but I would do this...
Can I write a letter to my monster in law but have you put it on your blog? Please?

Then came an email that damn near broke my heart. "This is what I would write, if I had a place to write it. I miss my Sean-bon, and I talk to him every day, but I need someplace that no one else knows where I can write this..."

And thusly was born Dear So and So..., a place for all those unsent letters; if you pop over there, the first letter you'll read is her letter to Sean.

If there's enough traffic and participation, I'm hoping to add new letters every Tuesday and Friday.

Should be fun. Come play with me :)

Sincerely,
Unsent Letter Writer

Today is a momentous day. Truly it is. For today the Boy turns 24, and it's National Peanut Butter & Jelly Day.

I should bake him some jelly filled peanut butter cookies, eh? Even though he hates peanut butter...

Happy birthday, kiddo!

Snow is evil, and riding in snow is probably stupid, but when I saw this picture all I could think was "Wow..." I don't know who the photographer was or who the rider is, but dang, I think this is pretty.

When we lived in Ohio, we had a kitchen about the size of a postage stamp; aside from dim lighting and a floor plan that allowed for only one person to do anything in there at a time, there was very little counter space, necessitating the purchase of a cart for the microwave.

Here, we have plenty of counter space, so the cart, which is quite nice, lives in my office, where it holds assorted crap that just shouldn't be spread out on the floor with the other assorted crap. Earlier I bent over to pick up an piece of paper, and realized there was a wad of hair sticking out from the seams of the side and the front, and I started to yank it out.

Then I realized, it's red hair.

None of us have red hair.

I don't think any of our friends ever had red hair, either, at least not since I dated that one guy in high school.

I looked closer; it was more gold, with just a tinge of red. And it was stiff, individual strands sticking straight out like fingers pointing right at me.

Hank.

He's been gone almost 4 years, but there's a tuft of his hair, waving at me.

I sat back in my chair, pondering Hank's errant hair.

I left it alone.

I started out at the Border's coffee shop today, thinking it would be a very nice place to sit back and write. After all, they allow a person to sit there and drink tea, unlike the library, which seems to frown on beverages of any sort. (Plus, I like to see the looks on peoples' faces when I empty 13 Equal packets into my teas. Why yes, yes I do enjoy that sludge at the bottom of my cup. It's like a liquidy little dessert after the tea is all gone.)

I've been going there more often than the library lately, simply because of the tea. Other people seem to use the little coffee shop the way I do; they sit there with their laptops, typing away, or they have textbooks and notebooks spread out before them, fueling up on caffeine while they study. Like the library, people leave each other alone.

Unlike the library, people can be loud. I can't complain about that, because it's not the library. Sometimes people are there to socialize, and they talk in normal tones and laugh a lot.

I don't mind.

Usually.

Today as I tapped away on my spiffy PDA, a very tired looking young woman wandered in with her very bright-eyed little boy--he looked like he was 3 or 4 years old--and ordered a munchy for him and a large frou-frou drink for herself. They settled into the nice overstuffed chairs in the corner, and he chattered away happily in between bites.

And he got louder.

And then louder.

He was happy and laughing...but loud.

She reminded him to use an inside voice. And for a minute or so, he did. Then he started kicking the chair, and she told him that was not polite, and to stop. And he did, for a minute or so.

This little boy was wound up and had no way to unwind. When he asked her when Daddy was coming to get them and she sighed wearily, "Not for an hour," I saved my document, closed the PDA, gathered my stuff, and headed for the library, where I could work in some semblance of quiet, even if it was without Power Tea at my elbow.

I felt for the woman, I really did. Hopefully after he finished his snack she took him outside to walk around, but I wasn't waiting to find out. For all I knew she was dead tired and didn't have the energy to move out of that chair, and it would have been an hour of him squirming and laughing loudly, and her trying to get him to speak softly and sit still.

If it sounds like I was annoyed, I wasn't. That's the risk I take by writing in a very public place.

When I got to the library, Library Bob was there--at MY table no less--flipping through a newspaper, so I took a table down the row a bit, next to a group of 20-somethings who sat there staring at textbooks. I caught a glimpse of graph paper with complicated looking strokes, figured my head would explode if it was me trying to figure that all out, and then settled back into the groove of writing.

After all, I need to get this Dead Guy figured out.

Five minutes later one of the 20-somethings sighed "You didn't."

Someone else giggled.

Another person at the table groaned "Dammit, you have to stop doing that."

Given another 20 seconds, I gathered the giggler must have had Taco Bell for lunch, possibly for 5 or 6 days running, and that he had been venting the results of those lunches quite frequently. When my eyes stopped watering, I gathered my things up once again and decided my creativity for the day was gone.

I think I wrote a grand total of 2 pages today.

It wasn't even a very good two pages.

Kinda like this blog entry...

=blink=
Buddah was snoring so loud I wound up getting out of bed.
Then I realized I had not taken my benedryl earlier, which explains my stuffy nose and being wide-awake.
It's going to be a long night...

:::Wanders off, wondering if they make tiny little feline CPAP machines:::

Wow. Remind me to never inject my growth hormone through anything that resembles a big zit.

Chick on a bike...
ok...*I* thought it was funny.

As I was zipping along today, enjoy the feeling of the wind on my neck and feeling sorry for the multitudes of bugs that were dying on my face shield, I spotted a rather large man on a rather small bike. He was at least 325 pounds, and he was riding a little Ninja 250. As he passed, the thought ran through my head that when he dismounted that poor bike, he was going to have to unwedge it from between his butt-cheeks, because it was really up in there.

And yes, I then promptly chastised myself for such an unkind thought. But that poor bike was really taking a beating from its rider.

I know...I'm going to hell.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Though I'm nowhere near ready to buy my next bike, I am already planning it. Because truly, most of the fun is in the planning and the reading about and the going to dealerships to sit on and drool over the merchandise. I've been to a Suzuki/Kawasaki/Ducati dealership and to a Honda/Suzuki dealership, and have sat on several different toys I would like to have someday.

One of the best fits was a Ninja 500. And it's an inexpensive bike. So I started thinking. And reading. And asking questions of people who already own one. And they made me think it would be a very fun bike indeed.

And then someone else had to pop my little bubble with "You already have a lead wrist, and that's on a little Rebel. How much trouble do you think you're going to get into on a sportsbike, even an entry-level sportsbike?"

I do like to go zoooom.

I think maybe my next bike will be something that I won't kill myself on... but that doesn't mean I can't still drool on them and read about them and download pictures of them.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Motorcycles are my porn.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Yay for spring.

Explain to me how "I'll mow the front yard and you mow the back" became "Thumper will mow the entire yard while the Spouse Thingy weed whacks." Because I'm pretty sure I got the short end of that stick.

Oh, and you know how and why we can both mow a lawn at the same time?

Because we needed a shed.

Yes, we needed a shed, and the Spouse Thingy valiently (with a tiny bit of help with all the tiny screws) ((hahahah yes he needed help screwing)) slapped a cheap one together ('cause we're all about the cheap) and placed it next to the other one at the side of the house (we have, like, zero storage here...) It's quite handy and he did a very good job.

However.

He did not measure before assembling the Mighty Cheap Shed, and there's just not enough room to get the lawn mower between the shed and the a/c unit. There's barely enough room for a person to squeeze through there.

The lawn mower--which was in the back yard while the Mighty Cheap Shed was under assembly--was too heavy to lift over the a/c unit.

So now we have a Mighty Cheap 2nd Lawnmower, which lives in the garage, in a space next to the bikes that had been cleared of things that went into the Mighty Cheap Shed.

Yes, we're that good.

(Oh, and I could have gone inside after mowing the front lawn, but I'm not quite that mean. Plus, we have small yards. It took me less time to mow front and back than it did for him to whack his weeds... Maybe being nice will get me something. Like a trip to a big motorcycle dealership to sit on their merchandise and leave large puddles of drool. I am a cheap date, yes I am.)

The Spouse Thingy has a wicked snore, so wicked that he can be heard across the house and on an entirely different floor. It's not an exaggeration to say that I have been sitting in the living room, silently cursing whatever neighbor deigned to fire up a weed eater while he was sleeping, only to realize that it's just the Spouse Thingy, snoring.

It's only funny when you remove sleep apnea from the equation.

Now, for the most parts we are on totally different schedules. He works nights, I sleep nights. He comes home and goes to bed, and I putter around the house, the sound of his slumber just another noise that buzzes in the background. I'm used to it, and with the door closed and me elsewhere in the house, it's not so bad.

Until he stops snoring. Then I sit there and wonder if I need to make a noise and startle him into breathing again, leave him along because he's finally deep asleep enough that maybe he is breathing but just past REM sleep, or is he dead?

Don't laugh...once in a while that thought runs through my head. I suddenly realize I haven't heard him in a while, and I worry. Then he starts up again, and I can go about my merry business.

Today, though, a guy from a respiratory therapy company came to the house and fitted him with a CPAP machine. He had a sleep study done in January that shows he wakes over 70 times per hour, and he has apnea. Halfway through the study they woke him up and slapped a CPAP on him, and he slept quite well, so he has high hopes that getting this will mean he stops feeling so tired all the time.

I hope it's end of worrying about the effects of apnea will take on his body over time, especially his heart. But now I worry that I won't have my Yes-He's-Alive marker. I won't hear him snore anymore. Intellectually, I'll know it's because he has this nifty new toy to keep his airway open, but that morbid little voice in the back of my head is going to think "He's dead. He stopped breathing, but I won't go check because he has the machine, and it would be rude to disturb him, so he's dead and I won't know until it's past time for him to get up."

Yes, my brain works that way. I'll get over it.

But hopefully, he'll finally get some solid sleep, uninterrupted 70 times an hour. He needs the rest, because spring has sprung and I'm making my list of Things He Needs To Do around the house.

I'm nice that way.

Dear a$$munch who thinks mugging little old ladies is a good idea:

Man, you showed a hell of a lot of class, beating up a 101 year old woman. Such bravery. There you stood, with her walker between you, slapping the snot out of her, just to get her purse with $33. Oh, you expected a better take? I suppose that's why you followed it up by mugging an 85 year old woman. You mother must be so proud.

And ya know what? I'm no Mike Tyson fan, but I think if you're ever caught, instead of just throwing your sorry butt in jail, you should first be tossed into a UFC octagon with Tyson. Let him show you how it feels to be hit by someone that much bigger and stronger. And then you can retreat to the relative safety of a federal PMITA prison, where Bubba and his special friend DubbaBubba will take you under their wings, and you can become their very special friend.

---

Dear Lady In Walmart:

You, too, have a lot of class. Why, I was so very impressed when you called your mother a fucking moron because she didn't know how to release the clasp on the baby carrier. And the moment was made Even More Special by your other three kids witnessing this Hallmark Event. It's nice that you're showing them now how you want to be treated in 25 years. Every parent should lead by example, you know. What a shining example you are!

---

Dear Other Lady in Walmart, the one in the McD's:

Thank you for telling your kid "Sweetheart, it's fries. You don't have to eat fries. It's ok to change your mind. I'll go buy you the apple slices if you'd rather have that." And then you did. You threw away the fries and bought your kid the apple slices. Too many parents would have gotten pissed off and snapped "You wanted them, eat the damned fries." Heck, I probably would have grumbled about the paying for uneaten fries and wouldn't have replaced them with something else. I'd like to think I would, but I'm not sure... Your kid will remember your patience long after he's forgotten about the fries.

---

Dear little kid in the Walmart McDs:

Thank you for offering me your nickel so that I could buy real food. I really only wanted a drink, and that's why I only bought a drink, but you are very sweet, and I hope you never lose that.

---

Sincerly,
Thumper

If you're stuck someplace where it's still cold and you have icycles hanging off your nips, feel free to hate me right now. Here, it's warm and wonderful, and spring hath sprung out all over.



Travis AFB Duck Pond

The Boy and I have taken to going over to the air force base to make use of the spiffy duck pond with its running/walking/shuffling-out-of-breath path. He runs, I...walk. Mostly. At least I'm moving.

If you don't like spring pictures, here's one of Max.

Night blind of the world rejoice!
Daylight savings time comes early this year!
We can stay out almost as late as the grownups!
I'm so excited, I might pee myself a little...

I'm not sure if I committed mass insecticide, or if it was random acts of mass suicide, but I think 200,456 bugs died on the face shield of my helmet today. May their splattered little selves rest in pieces...

• Tell me, in what world is it acceptable to throw french fries out the window of your pickup truck at someone riding a motorcycle?
  
• No, I was not the biker, just someone riding a few car lengths behind the biker.
  
• I did get a mean-streaked thrill when a bike cop coming in the other direction saw the french fries fly, and then whipped a U-turn, lights on.
  
• The Spouse Thingy also cannot comment on Typepad blogs; I can do it on my laptop from the library, so we have no idea what the problem is.
  
• My business email seems hosed, too. Or maybe its just the email client I'm using.
  
• Techoickiness.
  
• Library Bob shushed a librarian today. I wanted to laugh, but I was afraid she would hit me with her book.
  
• I need to find another place to work. I love the library, but it gets louder and louder, and if it's not oud, people seem to think they can talk to me.
  
• Well, ok, I don't really mind that so much, but it's not a productive use of my time.
  
• I want to win the lottery and then open an Office For Writers...someplace they can go to work away from home, where it feels like actually going to work.
  
• I'd even have a lounge, with a microwave and vending machine. And a coffee pot, even though I hate coffee.
  
• It would help if I actually bought lottery tickets.
  
• Dangit. Now I want french fries.
  

You Want This, You Know You Do...

Or...Rambling Because I Otherwise Have Blog Block...



Yep, I know, we only bought it two years ago. And it was my I Gotta Have It car, the one I'd wanted for 12 bazillion years. But the thing is, it was my car, bought with just what I wanted in mind. It's still a sweet car, but over the last few months we realized we really only needed one car for the two of us, and finally decided to get something we both like and not something that only I like.

Besides, on nice days we ride the bikes now, and don't make good use of the toplessness of driving the Sebring.

So we're gonna sell it.

Last month we nearly traded it in on a Camry, but they wouldn't even come close to blue book on it, so we walked away from the deal. Now with spring coming, we're pretty sure we can sell it for what it's worth ourselves, without the hassles of trade in negotiations. Heck, I may try to sell it on eBay; that worked out really well with the old Mazda. The difference is we owned the title on that and the bank owns the title on the convertible...we have to figure out the logistics of that first.

In other news, Buddah has discovered how to open the cabinet in the entertainment center, where some of his toys are kept...I can only hope he doesn't start pulling everything out a 4 in the morning.

And other other news, I still don't know what the heck is up with me and Typepad blogs...I'm starting to take all this Technoickiness personally.

And yes, Technoickiness is a word.

I just made it up, but still...