i was going to do the Friday Five today, but my answers to the questions were listless and unoriginal. much like Samir in Office Space, when i think of large amounts of money, i start thinking of investments and bonds... not how many DVDs i would buy or what kind of car i would get. see, this is exactly why i need to be rich. of course, i guess this is also why only the 2% of people that have money are keeping it. they're not spending any principal, only interest (if they're smart).

too tired to type more at this point, so most likely you'll have to wait until monday morning to hear from me again. ^_^

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So when I returned home today, there was a special message just for me left on the voicemail. I rarely get a voicemail on the land line, so I eagerly checked it while saying hello to the cat.

Turns out a certain someone from some blog didn’t like how I commented on a post earlier today in regards to the Plame case. The post the person wrote was rather drawn out and meaningfully confusing. It was the first time I had been to the site, and I liked the writing. Hell, I even put the blog in my favorites, under blogs. The comment I left was exactly as follows:

Uhm…. what? I think I’ll have to read that again. Or at least spew it out to some other people.

That’s it in its entirety. This comment so upset the person that wrote the post that he looked up my home telephone number (no doubt by going to internic or something similar) and left a voicemail asking me not to post on their site again, then stated that “you really are a stupid cunt.”

I personally thought an email would have sufficed.

Unfortunately, I deleted the voicemail immediately after listening to it, and being rather pensive, I just sat and thought about what I could have possibly done to make this person so pissed off at me. Then I realized that I really don’t care. The comment was given in a joking manner. Though I can see how things can be misconstrued online because there’s nothing like tone of voice or body language, I can’t imagine how anyone could have taken something like that so seriously as to think it a personal jab and want to spend the 5 cents to call a complete stranger long distance to call her a “stupid cunt.”

I’m obviously not posting the url to the site here. If you want to go to the trouble of finding it, you can. I won’t be visiting again, true to the person’s demand. I just really don’t care enough for people like that to even warrant giving them more traffic.

The Evidence: The actual post. The actual comment.

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I’m still feeling somewhat sick from the dream I had last night. I remember waking up many times during the night to get away from it, but every time I went back to sleep, it was hiding there, waiting for me silently.

The boy and I are in a small European-style apartment, and I’m hurriedly stuffing clothing in a backpack. Everything out the window is grey and dreary. The apartment is old, lined with water damage and cracking walls. Every second I think about what I’m doing, I want to just stop and bawl. Alas, my task is too important to stop, and I know that.

Everything I’m putting in the backpack gets taken out again, by me. I have to decide what possessions I can take with me. Of everything in my life, I can only choose the few that may fit into the backpack, and that greatly upsets me. I finally settle on 2 books, a board game, and a music box.

We leave the apartment, and I realize I have no shoes on. There is no one about, and there are large puddles on the cobbled street. My mother is waiting for me in her car. The boy can’t ride with us in the car because we aren’t married. He has to walk. As we drive off in the car, I realize that not only do I not have shoes on, but I’m missing my coat; I am only wearing a thin skirt and blouse. I beg my mother to go back to the apartment to get these things for me, these things of protection; she says there’s no time. I knew I should have worn many layers, so I could have left with as much clothing as possible.

I understand now that we’re going into hiding; that living as we were is no longer safe for us. I start to get very frightened. I don’t like being this scared, so I press my thumbs to my eyes. This helps make the pain relocate, just enough so I can stand it.

I rarely have dreams like this. Normally my dreams have to do with sex or running away from a bully. Usually I’m able to fly. The most disturbing part of this dream is the complete feeling of utter helplessness. The knowledge that we were being persecuted for what we were was absolutely incredible. I knew that my mother wasn’t being forced into hiding – she was safe. We were going into hiding at her house. I woke up wanting to puke. I think it may be one of the most terrifying dreams I’ve ever had; more so than even getting chased by something monstrous: a huge poo. The enemy in this dream was silent, invisible. That’s the crazy in me. Holocaust guilt?

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Ode to Wednesday:
Finally here, you are
I smile, hoping
The rest of the week will
Quickly follow

Ode to man standing in the doorway to the public restroom with the door open:
Talking to friends is great
However it is
Unnecessary for you to hold the door
While they wee

Ode to the person in the car trying to run me off of the freeway:
You in the ugly teal car
From Utah
Watch where you’re going
I have your license plate
Number

Ode to the same person in the car who tried to run me off of the freeway, now on a main road:
Afraid to pass me
You are
Afraid of catching my scornful
Gaze as it cuts like knives
Into your side
I remember
You have one headlamp out

Ode to man who says hello to me everyday with a smile:
I am far too young for you
So stop staring at me
As I walk down the corridor
And get that sicko gleam
Out of your eye

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The problem with feeling ill is that I’m always second-guessing myself. While in school, I was tortured to the point of making myself sick, just so I wouldn’t have to go. Nowadays, I tend to feel sick when I don’t want to do something, rather than just being the good little girl I am and toughing it out.

Last night, I was planning on going to the gym right after I arrived home. Instead, in the car ride home, I was having stomach cramps and the like. By the time I arrived at chez moi, I felt truly horrible indeed. And there was no way I was going to go to the gym like that. So I made a pact with myself: if I felt better after an hour of lazing about, I would go to the gym… if not… well, I would just have to deal with that when I got to it.

So I spent some time reading, watching anime, and knitting. When the hour was up, I did indeed feel better, so I tortured myself at the gym for a while (bout an hour and a half). Of course, I felt really proud of myself for actually going, because I’ve been really really lazy on that front for a while. And I always forget the high that I get after working out. I’m nothing like Ms. E J Shea and her boot camp (+gym, +yoga, +godliness). Knowing me, I could use someone yelling at me to run every morning. I would probably just pay the hellish amount of money, go for one day, and forget about it.

So I’ve joined up with Ms. Skinny Kat in her quest to lose her ass by her birthday, which is on April 3rd. I figure this is a good way of making myself jump the hell off of this plateau I’ve been riding for the past 6 months. Over the last year and a half, I’ve lost over 55 pounds, but I really haven’t lost anything at all since August. With the trip to Australia coming up this August, I have to get my ass in gear and actually lose some more fat before I even get close to putting a bathing suit on. I don’t think the snorkel people will let me swim in a t-shirt and shorts. So let’s have this be my goal for the year – for me to be able to comfortably purchase a swimming suit by late summer. I’ll try to keep track of my progress somewhere, and post it here once in a while. More likely, I’ll post on Ms. Skinny Kat’s site. So if you want to help her get that pink iPod she’s been drooling over, sign up and add an inch or two to her losses.

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Netiquette specifically forbids the use of typing in all caps. It also forbids the use of highly-annoying contrasting colors on pages that are meant to be read. Though I have seen these both happening rather prevalently on personal websites (and on very few commercial websites and eBay listings), I have hope in my heart that the evolution of the internet is far from hitting its paragon.

Back in 1994, when I created my first website, animated gifs and the < blink> tag were all the rage. One will still see the animated gifs once in a while, but they tend to be more subdued and practical now. Indeed, I wasn’t immune to the flashiness of the times, and my very-long-single-page site was a linkfest of virtues and loves. Geocities (née Beverly Hills Internet – yes, I remember those days) and < blink> tags have all gone the way of the buffalo; the word of the day is minimalism.

Being minimalist has never been easy for me. A born pack rat, I loved filling every corner of my personal, private, on online lives with stuff. Getting older (and wiser, I hope) has led me to believe that this constant filling has no actual purpose, and I just need to stop. Alas, everyone knows that old habits are hard to break.

Ben and I were cleaning out our collective wardrobes, getting rid of items not worn, things that were too big, too small, had stains, holes, and the like yesterday. I realized that eventually everyone must take stock in what is expendable and what is too valuable to destroy (or simply give away). I had a pair of linen pants in a drawer that I purchased back in 1998 and promptly tore a large hole in, thanks to my piece-of-shit car (RIP). I figured that I would sew the hole up, and when trying to do so, I realized that linen doesn’t sew very well. I put the pants away, thinking that I would patch or fix them somehow, as they were an expensive variety of pants, and I didn’t want to waste the money.

Sometimes you just have to let go.

So in the give-away pile they went, along with the other too-big clothing that I have no use for and other holy garments.

Minimalist it is.

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Before I went off to college (ahem – 3 mi. away from my location at the time), I knew I had to find a roommate to share living quarters with at the University-sponsored apartments. Hardly any of my friends were going to BSU at the time (nor were they girls), so I ended up contacting someone who had put an advert in the paper. Yeah, the paper – you know, the Idaho Statesman.

She was from St. Anthony, a town known for its crazyhouse, and its one stoplight. Seriously. I spoke with her for a bit on the phone, and she sounded… well, nice. Like someone I could get along with.

When moving in, I met her parents. They were country/farm folk. Her dad brought a case of Coors with him to help him through the day. He offered one to me, which I refused. Once everything was moved in (really didn’t take that long as I owned 2 pieces of furniture at the time), I took a look at the roommate’s (larger) room. Where I had a queen-sized bed and a gigantic desk from the WWII era, she had a twin daybed and a small desk. Where I had approx 20sq’ of open floor space in my bedroom, she had about 100sq’. That pissed me off a bit, but being the passive-aggressive person I am, I let it go.

Also in her bedroom was her stereo and CD collection. I took a look through her collection and uttered a silent scream. She had told me during our phone conversation that she liked all kinds of music (a plus, normally), but she liked country the best. I really didn’t mind at the time, thinking she would have a CD collection like me – heavy in one area, but speckled throughout with other music. Her CD collection consisted of all country with the exception of an Ugly Kid Joe CD. Ugly Kid Joe?! Huh? I knew I was in trouble.

Deeming that the only way I was actually going to live with this person peacefully was to otherwise ignore her, I began to do so. I view roommates and coworkers the same way – if they’re supercool neato people, then yeah, I might hang out with them. However, if they’re not supercool neato, then I think I’d rather hang out with my other friends, and just be cordial to the other person when interaction is a necessity. Sure, I would talk to her if she was in the room, and for the first couple of weeks I even went out of my way to invite her to hang out with my friends and I when we went out, knowing that she had no friends. The roommate soon began her PT job at McDonald’s (only because her manager back home at the McDonald’s she had been working at for 2 years had called the manager in Boise – or so she braggingly told me), and began making friends there. We saw each other less and less, which was just fine with me. But there were a few things that she would do (or otherwise wouldn’t do) that were slowly driving me nuts.

She was one of those people that spent 2 hours in the bathroom in the morning before going to class. Shower for a half hour, makeup for a half hour, hair for a half hour, and clothes for a half hour. I rarely had time to actually get myself clean (approx 15 mins) before heading off to class myself. Strike one.

She would never ever take the trash out. A month after moving in, her boxes were still piled up to the ceiling in the storage room. I needed someplace to put my bike. So I ended up enlisting the next door neighbor boys to help me take them to the dumpster. After taking out the garbage myself for 2 weeks, I left it in the closet to collect, just to test her. Sure enough, another bag of garbage appeared next to the already overflowing bag, then another. Eventually, after a week of putting up with this, I took out the garbage myself in 3 trips. Strike two.

She would eat my food. Apparently, her parents gave her plenty of money per month with which to purchase groceries. She refused to buy anything but chicken pot pies (which I cannot stand), macaroni, tinned tomatoes and tomato paste, and cheese. I, on the other hand, would purchase fruit, vegetables, pizzas, meats, and stuff I could make actual meals with. Consistently, when making something to eat for myself, I would find a key ingredient missing. I would check the garbage, and sure enough, would find the wrapper for the aforementioned item usually sitting on the top of the pile. When I brought this up with her, she denied it at first, then started telling me that I was eating her chicken pot pies, so she was eating my food in retaliation. Being the pot pie hater that I am, I denied this. I knew she was eating my food because she didn't like the food she had bought for herself. Strike three.

At this point, I received a letter from said roommate, complaining about me. The gist of the letter was a big whine about how I would never hang out with her (she never asked), and when I had friends over, I ignored her (as most of my friends didn’t even like her, I thought that this was for the best). I cordially wrote back a note asking her forgiveness and inviting her out to dinner with my other friends, etc. etc. I obviously didn’t want to live with a person I couldn’t stand, and satiating her hunger for drama and friends of mine seemed like a good way to keep her quiet for the time being.

So the roommate went and got herself a boyfriend. His name was Chris, he worked with her at McDonald’s, and had really really bad acne. Chris was a nice guy, too… not much to look at, not much to talk to, but I was all into seeing the roommate be happy. All was going well until one night when the roommate was trying to lure her bf into her bedroom by feigning sleepiness. We were all in the livingroom, so she decides to yawn, stretch, and go into her room. The bf sat on the couch and watched the teevee. I was playing on my computer. Said bf then came over to my side of the couch and started rubbing my leg. Absolutely grossed out, I removed his hand, patted it, and suggested he go be with his gf in her bedroom. Obviously daft and not understanding, he attempts to kiss me (he really didn’t even get close). Even more grossed out, I shoved him away, and quitted to my bedroom for the night, locking the door behind me.

The next day, I had a cute little note from the roommate saying she was moving out. Apparently, her bf told her that I tried to hit on him. Hah. Chris broke up with her because he wanted to go for me. Double hah (and ew). Later, she threatened to take me to small claims court for my unpaid portion of the cable bill, totaling $50. I didn’t own a teevee, let alone watch teevee, nor did I want cable. Pffft.

I think she was just upset because I didn’t become her best friend.

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So, one would naturally come to the conclusion that we, as intelligent human beings, would realize the fault in having psycho little boys share a house with my mother and I. And we did, we really did. The third child to become my temporary sibling was Tracy.

Tracy was different. She was 2 years older than me, and seemed to be a lot more stable than the previous incarnations of Beelzebub. At 14, she seemed glamorous to me.

Tracy started Placer High School while in our care. She made friends, albeit slowly, and really became a part of our family. Like most teenagers, she had her share of issues: she would get depressed sometimes and wouldn’t eat for days. On the other hand, she would be extremely happy at other times, and eat a ton of food. As Tracy gained more and more weight, we got her counseling for the issues she seemed to hold inside of her.

When the psychiatrist pronounced that she was bi-polar, it seemed we had made a breakthrough. Tracy was put on some meds that made her feel fine and dandy again, and things quickly returned to normal.

On the way home from the bus stop one day, I ran into the little dirty carnie kids that lived across the street from me. They asked me why there had been an ambulance at our house that day. Thinking they were just screwing with me (as most kids did back in the day), I passed on the chance to even speak to them, and headed up the long gravel road to our house. My mom’s truck was outside, and everything seemed just fine. When I entered the house and called out my mom’s name, there wasn’t an immediate reply. I was used to Tracy being home before me, so I ran upstairs to see if she was in her room. Indeed, when I opened the door to her room, it was empty and clean.

I went back downstairs and eventually found my mother, sitting in a chair by her bed and sobbing. I always felt uncomfortable when adults were crying, so I didn’t say anything for a while. Eventually, I worked up the nerve to ask her what was wrong, and she told me what had happened.

Tracy had come home early from school that day, unbeknownst to mom. She had then taken the key to the medicine cabinet (which she had not given back to mom the night before), opened the lock, and downed as many pills as she could find in there. Tracy then went up to her room and lay on the far bed in her room, as if to take a nap. My mom showed up at home, and, surprised that Tracy was home, went to wake her up. When Tracy didn’t respond to my mom tickling her feet, mom started to get worried. She walked to the far side of the bed and noticed that there was vomit on the floor. She immediately called for an ambulance.

Tracy was taken to the closest hospital and had her stomach pumped. Indeed, she did live to see another day. While in the hospital, she tried to slit her wrists. With only a butter knife to work with, she could barely make them bleed. She was sent to a lockup. Her temper turned violent, and she was put in solitary many times. Eventually, when she seemed to make some progress, they released her into the children’s home. The children’s home eventually deemed she was doing well enough to come back into our care.

Tracy had started smoking when in the detention center. My mom was a smoker at the time, too, and though Tracy was a mere 15 (almost 16), she allowed her to smoke outside. Tracy went back to her old High School, and ended up causing a lot more trouble there. Where before had been a nice girl now stood a pissed teenager bent on making lives hell. She was caught stealing at school, and destroying property. She tried to set the girls’ restroom afire. After getting suspended the second time, the social workers pulled her out of our house, and placed her in a specialist community where she would live with and go to school with others her own age.

We did visit Tracy quite often at the home. All of the kids there were just like her: fucked in the head, and with practically no supervision, ran amok. Most of them smoked. More than a few were gang members, or at least were previously. No one was allowed off grounds except to go on a sponsored trip. They built buildings, planted gardens, and attended classes. We went to her “High School Graduation” commencement. As soon as she turned 18, she was released into the world without a clue, nor a direction. We really didn’t hear from her much after that. Eventually, the news came to us through many sources that Tracy had been raped repeatedly by members of a local college basketball team. No charges were ever brought up. She attempted suicide again, unsuccessfully.

Unfortunately, there is no real conclusion for Tracy. I cannot remember her last name, so even trying to find out where she is or what she is doing is not an option. Glenn and Jason both ended up in NACA (National Association of Child Advocates) home, most likely never to be released.

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The second installment of hell’s name was Jason. He had the same angelic/crazy look as Glenn, same dark hair and bright eyes, same penchant for killing our animals. Jason was 6, the same age as Glenn, but he ended up lasting a bit longer in our household. Really, the similarities were so numerous as to blur the memories between these two boys, and make them one being. But I digress…

Jason was with us for about a year. And though he hadn’t a need to walk around at night with a knife, he had the want of pitching fits. And I don’t mean like your normal 6-year-old fit, I mean like a psycho 6-year-old fit. These fits would normally lead to my mom holding Jason down while I called the social worker to get the okay to get him a barbiturate at the hospital. Mom sustained numerous injuries during these fits: bites, chunks of hair being pulled out, scratches on any skin exposed, and bruises in crazy places. The strange thing is when we tried to get Jason into counseling of some sort, the foster family program didn’t want us to get him any help. They just said, “don’t worry about it. He’ll give up these fits in time. He’s really too far gone with it for help now.”

Why the state of California would hand out these kids like little green pills to unsuspecting people is beyond me. Like many, Jason had been either abandoned quickly after birth, or had been abused by his parent(s) until removed from home. He then spent a few years in and out of abusive foster homes. This kid had some serious abandonment issues, as well as a massive chip on his shoulder.

I think that Jason really went nuts after trying to kill our dog. We had 3 dogs at the time: 2 German Shepherds and 1 little mutt. Seriously little. We found Spike Jones (seriously, folks – and nothing to do with the film maker(s) – his full name was Spike Jones Bag O’ Bones) on a busy street near our house one day, playing in traffic. His fur was all matted, and he didn’t have a nametag, so being the animal lover my mother is, we took him right in. Personally, I wasn’t a huge fan of Spike’s; he was a mangy little dog, and I’m not big on little dogs.

Jason decided that he didn’t like this dog enough to toss him off of the back porch. Like a windup in a softball pitching mound, Jason took Spike by the back leg, swung him around a few times, and let him fly off in the distance. Amazingly, the dog got off with a broken leg – he had to walk around for a month with a cast. Within that month, Jason was back at the children’s home.

We left Jason at the children’s home for about a month to be in pretty much a lockup situation. He was confined to his room most of the day. He had counseling twice a day. This kid had the counselors eating out of his hand. They thought he was just a great little boy, a diamond in the rough. He came back to our home after this hiatus, and seemed to be just fine for about 3 weeks. After that, he killed off yet 2 more of our chickens. We had to let this one go.

Total time Jason spent living with us: approx. 1 year. Total time for Glenn: 5 months. Chickens killed by Jason: 3. Chickens killed by Glenn: 5. Chickens killed by chicken hawk and a really bad wind storm: 6. Chickens left after everything: 0. Help provided by the California Children’s Network: none, in any case.

My first foster sibling was a little boy named Glenn. He was 6 and looked oh-so angelic with his dark hair and shining eyes. Little did we know that those eyes were shining with crazy.

Glenn lasted about 3 months with us. From the day he arrived, strange things started happening. We were missing a few chickens. The dogs were constantly out of food and water. Some butter knives weren’t in their usual spots.

Before the state will allow you to take care of one of its children, your house must be completely “safe”: all sharp utensils locked up, all cleaning supplies/poisons must be locked up, and all medications must be locked up.

We had a large box of cutting knives at the very top of a cupboard that ran to the ceiling, locked, of course. These knives seemed to escape once in a while. At first, we thought we were leaving them out accidentally, which is a big no-no around foster children. We would carefully put them back in their rightful homes, ready for the next meal preparation. They kept escaping.

Finally, one night my mom heard something from the kitchen before she fell asleep (her bedroom was right next to the kitchen). She went to investigate and found Glenn walking about the first floor of the house wielding a large butcher knife. The 6 year old had climbed the counter to the cupboard, pulled out the box, somehow picked the lock, and got off on walking around the house with a knife all night. Normally, he would then lock the box again (how?), put it back in its place, and go back to his bedroom just before dawn to sleep the next couple of hours before school.

We called the social worker about this, and she suggested locking Glenn up in his room every night and install an intercom so he could notify one of us if he needed to go to the bathroom. My mom agreed to do this, and that day, we put a deadbolt on the door, unlockable only with a key. Glenn was okay with this for about 2 seconds. He threw a fit, and my mom tried to explain to him how this was for his own protection, etc. He seemed to calm down after that, so we proceeded with the nightly routine.

About 4am my mom wakes up to a little boy strangling her in bed. Mom, being at least 6’ tall and v. strong, immediately pins Glenn to the ground and calls the social worker. The social worker tells us that this is sometimes normal and that Glenn is just “getting used” to being in a stable environment. Not to be one taken twice, my mom takes Glenn back to the children’s home in the morning. After a day of speaking with a counselor, Glenn confesses to killing 5 of our chickens and throwing them either in the next-door neighbor’s pond or over the fence onto the property of the Mormon church. At least he got something right. Mom decides that maybe this isn’t the best kid for us. We leave Glenn at the children’s home.

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I am an only child. I have been since I can remember, really. Well, I do have a step-sister, but I’ve seen her like maybe 10 times, and she lives in California. Anyhow, I always wanted specifically an older brother. Since it was nearly impossible to just get one of those from my mom, she decided to the do the next best thing: take care of foster children.

Now, at the time, we were living in Granite Bay, California in a rather large house. My dad pretty much had no part in almost anything there (except gardening), because he worked in the Bay Area, about 120mi away, and spent his weeks staying at my Aunt’s house. Sure, he came back home for the 2-3 day weekends he had, but he affectively ignored the both my mother and I by spending most of his time gardening or working on various projects. I was pretty comfortable being there with my mom and only my mom.

At first, when the decision was made, all of us were pretty excited, my father included. Imagine having the chance to change someone’s horrible, forgotten life into something positive! We actively went to and participated in classes, including first aid, all of which were necessary and required by the State. I hung out with other little kids who were about to embark on the same journey of adding another small person to their family. I was so ecstatic, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t help thinking about this new person we were bringing into our lives. What would he or she be like? Would he or she be my age? Since most of the kids that are approved to be fostered are rather young, I resigned myself to the fact that I would most likely not get an older brother.

The day finally came when we were to see the child for ourselves. My mother, who filled out the forms on what kind of child she wanted (rather like ordering a steak from Swanson’s, really), pretty much checked everything. I was secretly praying for someone of different ethnicity, as at that time, hardly anyone I knew was anything other than white or Latino. I really can’t remember if I saw this child before it entered our home. Possibly not. I think my mom may have been actually hoping to eventually adopt one of these children we ended up fostering.

By the end of it all, it was the least on our minds.

last night/this morning, just after midnight, the boy and i took a harrowing journey. to the grocery store. you see, we've been putting off a large shopping trip since new year's, so we figured that we would do it last night.

it wasn't the best decision one could make. since we were awake and in bad need of food, we just figured "what the heck" and took the plunge. yesterday during the day the streets were all slushy. last night, it snowed about 2 inches, but nothing that would seem to make a huge difference to the way the streets were previously in the day.

we were wrong.

the streets were ice. and i mean ice. everywhere. the entire way to the store (about a mile and a hlaf away) was ice. the entire way back was ice. the parking lot? ice. the 2" of snow that had come down earlier in the night had been packed down by cars so much that it just became one sheet. of ice. it was scary as fuck trying to get to the store (and back) alive. we were in the boy's scout, which subsequently did not have anything but us in it, and therefore not enough weight in the back. any time we even hit the brakes, we slid. anytime we turned a corner, we slid. when we were trying to park the car, going 1MPH, we slid. it was horrid.

when we were finally close enough to home to feel safe, we couldn't go any further at all. any attempt at braking or accelerating made us go sideways down the street. one of ben's friends just happened to be walking by at this point and hopped on the back of the scout, letting the car move (in the correct direction) once again. and, of course, we got home safely.

i haven't driven in 4 days due to the state of the streets here. my neighborhood is still completely ice. the boy is on his way to the gas station now (in his Saturn - thank g-d for front-wheel-drive), and will be able to bring me back a report on the main roads. my big fear is having to go back to work tomorrow. my place of business is about 7 mi. from here, all mostly on main roads. i'm just hoping and praying and hoping that the roads will be better tomorrow morning than they were last night. it is going to be 11 degrees tonight, so i'm not in the best of moods.

on another note, the night before last, it was so bright outside that i could have read a book with no help at 3am... here's a picture of the boy and i (with the scout) at just about 3am. with no flash.

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so i spent the great turning of the year with Photoshop. Ah, to live as a geek... i'm really quite tired as it is, but i wanted to make sure that everyone is aware of how much sobbing fun i had tonight. if you take a look at the gallery(this means you, LeeAnn), you will see that the Madison pictures are finally in a better format under Colour pictures. also, if you are reading this right now, and you have been here before, you'll notice a couple of small changes; i redid the title, kitty, and sidebar. enjoy. i'm off to play TSO for a bit before passing out.

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