…my advice to you is this: stay inside your house, preferably away from outside walls and windows, for the next six months.

I forgot to tell you that Kelly passed her driver's permit test last week, and she only passed by thiiiiis much.

I guess that means that I'd better add her to our Car Insurance policy, huh? Something tells me we'll get our money's worth out of that, unfortunately.

So, you know how I got that new phone a couple of weeks ago? And you know how the camera is really easily accessible, and the sound can be (and has been) turned off, so I can take the sneaky photos?

Yeah, well, as you may imagine, I am loving that like Stanley likes chewing on bull penises. I very often see things that are funny or interesting, at least to me, and sharing them increases the fun factor at least tenfold. Yesterday at the Seattle airport, for example, I saw four things in the span of about twenty minutes that warranted being photographed and shared. I saw:

A lady with no qualms about invading people space. She sat down with me at my table, while I was enjoying one of those bowls of noodle soup with an egg in it.

A man named "Po."

A fashion DON'T.

A line three hundred people long that formed when they boarded an airplane all at once, rather than row-by-row.

Now, don't you wish you could have seen those things yesterday? I mean, some of you did, but most did not, because I do not have your cell phone numbers. If you would like to change that, and would enjoy getting photos and snarky commentary on them from me, please email me your number, and I'll put you in my phone. Then, if I see something I think might make you laugh, I can send it along. Of course, I'd love it if you'd send me pictures, too.

It will be just like blogging by phone! Oh, boy!

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Rose and I were just watching the 12:00 news, and high school wrestling in Minnesota has been canceled for 8 days in order to get control of a herpes outbreak among the wrestlers.

Here's where I laugh inappropriately at the misfortune of others, because that is funny!

They spend hours at a time grinding their boyginas into each other's faces, and then there's a herpes outbreak. That's beautiful.

Of course, the news story didn't point out that there are different types of herpes, the sexually transmitted kind and the unfortunate cold sore kind, so I imagine there is a flurry of phone calls taking place between the moms of wrestlers, the moms of wrestlers' girlfriends, and the school.

So be warned, boys and girls. Not only will wrestling eff up your ears, but it will give you herpes, as well.

If you knew me 20 years ago, you knew that my life focused around my baby, and really around her attachment to my boobs. She was a lovely little infant who enjoyed nothing more than to be snuggled and breastfed for hours at a time. Being the young, uninformed mother that I was, in never even occurred to me that I could take the initiative to limit that amount of time. There were books that said you should nurse your baby for ten minutes on each side, and then be done. Ha! I'd sit in the rocking chair with that child for three hours at a time, some days!

When she got to be about six months old, we thought how nice it would be if we could maybe sometimes leave our baby with somebody, like a grandma or a babysitter, and go out for dinner, or maybe see a movie. We could do that, as long as we got back before the baby got hungry, because that particular baby would absolutely not drink anything from a bottle, not even expressed breast milk.

Fortunately, I had two good friends who had similarly boob-loving babies, so we could babysit for each other. I know! People are horrified, but it worked for us. We knew each other well enough to know that we wouldn't pass on diseases or drugs to the babes. We were close friends, and the babies sure appreciated it! Incidentally, all those babies are college sophomores and juniors now, and seem to be fairly normal human beings.

We'd build up our milk supplies with a piece of equipment similar to Dr. Browns Natural Flow Breast Pump, and then we'd have enough milk to feed two hungry babies, and then we could take turns being away for an entire day, if we needed to. Oh boy!

That was a long time ago, but I would suppose that even more mamas are having a need for a good breast pump, because even more mamas go to work every day. BreastPumps.com has eight zillion of them, at least, and there is a page where you can compare them, too. Want one to pump both breasts at the same time? How about one that plugs into a cigarette lighter so you can pump n' drive? KIDDING! Although it wouldn't surprise me.

Ahhh, I loved breastfeeding my babies.

A. Pretty frickin' fast, if the building is on fire.

Which it was, at 4:30 or so this morning.

Did I tell you I was going to Seattle? Because I was, and I did. I was at the Red Lion Hotel on Fifth, and it was lovely, it really was, until the building caught fire, and then not as much.

So, I was peacefully snoozing away, as I am wont to do at such an hour, when I was abruptly awakened by a siren so loud that it seemed to be above my bed, which, by the way, it was. When I say loud, I mean it was as if somebody had set off one of those air horns I very love, right in my ear, and than a guy's voice goes, "There is a fire in the building! Proceed to the nearest stairwell immediately!" By the time he said "proceed," I was out the door. Do not stop for a robe. Do not get your coat. Do not pass go, and do not collect $200. But grab the camera.

That's my motto in a hotel fire, anyway. I was on the 18th floor (out of 20), and yet, I was one of the first people out of the building. Why, you may ask? Because most people actually GOT DRESSED before they left. Here are some of the guests on the street outside the hotel. Notice their attire:

Gee, the building is on fire. Hand me my jeans. Wait a sec, I need to tie my shoes. Oh, I almost forgot my jacket.

!!!!!!!!!

That's craziness! By the time I got to the 10th floor, I could smell the smoke. At the 5th floor landing, I encountered the firefighters with their giant hose (heh heh), and could see the smoke. That's where the fire was, in the kitchen of the 5th floor restaurant.

So, after about an hour, there was an announcement that the fire was contained and we could go back to our rooms, but I said a big no thanks to that and waited until the fire was OUT before I moseyed back upstairs to try to catch some more zzzz's. That was not to be, however, because (here's the part where I tell you about one of my dreams even though I have no interest in anybody else's dreams, hardly ever) I kept dreaming I was on a bus where the driver was reading a magazine while he was driving, and I told him to knock it off and pull over, that I wanted to get off the bus. Then it turns out he's nuts, and he starts freaking out that I'm going to report his DWR behavior to the bus authorities and he'll lose his job, so he's thinking maybe he'll just crash the bus to kill himself, and take us all with him. Did I see that on TV?

And now Kelly wants me to go to the health club and work out with her at 5:30 tomorrow. She's so funny!

So, I would be remiss if I didn't report on the condition of the Red Lion's caulk. Let me show you:

Now THAT'S some pretty caulk. The Red Lion should be very proud that I've displayed its caulk here, for the world to ogle. Gaze at the beauty that is this caulk, people. That right there is excellent caulk.

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Well. That turned out to be a good time!

You would not believe how many people show up at the Metrodome for the opportunity to stand in lines, looooong lines, to see their favorite baseball players. Joe Mauer? You'd wait at least a couple of hours, and your $15 would go to Twins charities.

We got to go in a nifty little lounge, though, because we're a teeny bit special like that, and besides the bar and the catered P.F. Chang's buffet, some of the players came in to see us. Here is a photo of Mr. Torii Hunter with Jimmy and Kelly:

It's 40 frickin' degrees out, dudes! In Minnesota! In January! It feels positively balmy out there.

To add to the whole fake spring theme, we're going to Twinsfest tonight. Twinsfest is where they open up the field of the Metrodome to the likes of regular folks like us, and set up all sorts of tables and booths with baseball-related stuff. Lots of the Twins players will be there signing autographs and helping everybody get all pumped up about summer. There will be Dome Dogs, I assume, which is reason enough for me to go. The autographs? Don't care. If you are a baseball player, please don't be insulted when I don't ask you to sign something. I'll probably use the time to ask you a question instead, okay? I assume you can write your name, but it doesn't impress me. Sorry.

As an organization, the Twins are really pretty nifty. They've spent the last week? Two weeks? touring around the boonies of Minnesota talking to fans who don't get to the city much. Isn't that neato? Do other baseball teams do that for their outstate fans?

In approximately one hour, I will be ingesting a delicious tubular meat product, surrounded by baked, processed wheat and topped with pickled shredded cabbage and colorful condiments. You're jealous now, aren't you?

…that it was Christmas. That was only a month ago? Wow. It feels like six months ago, at least.

So, you know that oldest daughter of mine? That really smart one? Yesterday she got her tongue stuck on a popsicle, and not only that, she yanked the popsicle right off, and it took some tongue skin with it, and her tongue got all bloody. Gross.

This is the same person who spent J-term taking classes, studying constantly, and passing a Really Dastardly Test to get her real estate license. Isn't that cool? She knows all sorts of complex laws and statutes and regulations about buying and selling a house, and she can do that for you, and she isn't even finished with college yet!

I'm very proud of her. That's quite an accomplishment for anyone, but even more for somebody so retarded that they get their tongue stuck on a popsicle. That's my girl.

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This is a photo of one of the doctors from Kelly's eye doctor's web site.

Kelly woke up today with a bright red, goopy eyeball. Bummer. It was glued shut. I'm going to take her to the eye doctor as soon as they open, but she also wants to take her driver's test (again) this afternoon. It's the kind of test where you answer questions on a computer, and not the kind where you drive a car around a fake neighborhood while a guy who reeks of smoke intimidates you. We'll see.

So, how old is old enough that you don't get pink eye anymore?

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I am seriously considering buying a Magellan GPS thingy for my car. Actually, for my car and any other car, because I want it to be portable like that. The problem is that I absolutely refuse to go to stupid dumb you-know-where that sells those. So where else can I buy that? Anybody know? I tooled around on eBay this afternoon, but there are so many different models and so many different dealers that I sort of glazed over. Anybody know anything about those? Which one do I need if I want these features:

A screen that shows me, visually, where I'm going.

That lady telling me my turn is coming up.

A button I can push to find the nearest gas station/ restaurant/ coffee shop.

Ability to guide me around the entire US, without a subscription to anything.

Heeeelllp!

I like to think I'd never have occasion to need Payday cash Advance Loans, but you know what? Who knows? If Pat gets his ass fired like Dwayne Casey did today, it could get a liiiiitle tricky to try and pay all the bills around here with my part-time job.

You can buy a little time with an online cash advance, but it would behoove you to keep your wits about you and pay it back on time, on your next pay day, because if you don't, you can end up spending a crapton of money on fees.

I read a little about it at Payday Loan Online, and I was surprised to find how above board they seem. All over the site, there are links to articles about when you should use a service like that, and when you shouldn't. They're very up front. I hope I never need to do it, but if I need a No Fax Payday Loan, I'll start there, just because I won't feel like I am being misled or taken advantage of. Which I deserve, for ending that sentence with a preposition.

And that is why the Timberwolves will be play their game against the Suns tonight without Kevin Garnett or Ricky Davis. They are both suspended for disappointing their mothers by their ungentlemanly behavior, for which they are very sorry, I would guess. Boys, boys, boys! We can still hope for 48 minutes of good basketball, though. You're just going to need to step it up, Mr. James, Mr. Foye, Mr. Hassell, Mr. Madsen, Mr. Smith, Mr. Blount, Mr. Reed, Mr. Wright, Mr. Hudson, and Mr. Yaric.

As much as I heart my Timberwolves, I also heart Shawn Marion, for that time when he winked at me while I took this photo from my oh-my-gosh-I-can't-believe-I-get-to-sit-here courtside seat last year:

Pat and I bought our first house in 1984, the year after we got married. Mortgage rates at the time were something like a ridiculous 11-3/4% or something like that. I worked in a restaurant at the time, and Pat managed a convenience store. We weren't making a heckuva lot of money, and I'm not even sure how we saved enough for a down payment on our little house.

Baby Rose came along in 1986, and although I'd always planned that I'd go back to work after three months, once I took one look at her little conehead I knew I'd never, ever leave her for hours a day while I went to work. And I didn't. That put quite a crimp on our lifestyle, of course, especially with our $1,000 per month house payment. Still, I don't remember being overly stressed about it. I was just thrilled to be able to wake up and take my baby to the park every day, you know?

Then, when Rose was still pretty tiny, mortgage rates dropped and all our neighbors started to talk about Mortgage Refinance. We were young and pretty clueless, and didn't really even understand what mortgage refinancing was. Pat finally made a phone call or two, and we found out that with one magical meeting we could reduce our house payment by about $250 every month, and all we had to do was sign and initial about 500 documents! We were in heaven.

If I remember correctly, that mortgage refinance took us down to about 9%, and we felt like millionaires. We could go out to dinner again! We could save for college! We could buy lots and lots of little Italian shoes for our little girl! Wheeeee!

We refinanced this house, too, several years ago. This time we didn't reduce our payment. Instead, we reduced the length of the loan from thirty years to 15, and I think we're within five or six of the mortgage burning party now! This time, it'll be MY turn for Italian shoes!

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When ya got it, flaunt it!

Oh, wait. By "it," I don't think they meant back flab, sweat beads, or cellulite, and I am almost certain that they didn't mean for your cottage cheese-filled boob to be oozing out like that. Actually, as a general rule, if your breasts sag down so low that your nipples land below your uppermost flab roll, you're not a candidate for wearing halter tops, and standing right next to your cute little underdressed blonde friend only makes it worse. By the way, the high temperature in Minneapolis yesterday was 19 degrees. I wore a high-necked, long sleeved shirt with a snuggly chenille jacket, jeans, and boots. But that's just me. I am also not a candidate for halter tops.

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Baron Davis of the Warriors is supended for taking a swing at a guy on the Clippers, and Ricky Davis is suspended for what sound like a little bit of a hissy fit.

Okay. So KG was tossed last night for defending Mark Madsen's honor. Ricky Davis didn't like being taken out of the game (presumably; who really knows why he was torked) and took a little walk to cool off (presumably; who really knows why he went to the locker room).

So listen up, you Timberwolves, and take a little motherly advice from Suzi. Get back to the basics you learned as little boys: Play fair. Be good sports. No hitting. Keep playing the kind of game with the kind of energy you've shown us lately (not that Altanta game, though), okay?

And how come I never noticed that spot on Sheed's head before? Has that always been there?

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Don't you wish your boots were hot like mine? Don't cha?

A. Yes. Yes it is.

This was sticking obscenely out of my mailbox when I came home from work yesterday.

You are correct in your assumption that it's from my dad. He swears that you can mail anything—including a three-foot long rawhide bone—just by writing an address on it in permanent marker and slapping on some stamps. He learned this when his friend Jack went to Hawaii, picked up a coconut, and mailed it to my dad in exactly the same naked manner.

Stanley is thrilled beyond belief. He barked at if for a good 15 minutes before he got brave enough to attack it. The bone is roughly twice as long as the dog.

You know what I would like, as a feature on my phone?

Not a camera. Got that. Not a ringtone of AI's "Practice, we're talkin' about practice" quote. Got that. Not speedy texting. Got that.

What I would like, and what I don't have on my phone, is a tazer, in case I encounter a snake. Or a kidnaper. Or a lurky geezer looking at one of my daughters. Or a clumsy guy at the drive through window who spills pop right down my sleeve. Or somebody who gets to the bottom of the escalator, steps off, and immediately stops, causing a ten person pile-up.

And I would like it to be the kind that shoots out a little fish hook on the end of a wire, please.

Zap.

Remember how I said that I was going to buy new phones and a new cell phone plan, and that I was going to do it online? Yeah, well. I am not the phone purchaser in our family, as it turns out. Pat is, and the story of the purchase adventure is a post of its own, and I will tell that story, as soon as the story is finished, which it isn't yet.

We are at the part of the story called Chapter 5: Suzi Gets a New Phone.

So, you know how I'm technologically Amish? And I don't answer my text messages because I barely know how? And it takes a long time?

Well, that was two days ago, before I'd come down with an icky stomach from eating too much ravioli (I think), and spent an entire day lying around in bed, snuggling with a cute puppy and reading the manual to my New Phone, and learning how to text message using that other kind of text messaging, where you punch in the words, one key at a time, and it guesses the words, and it's usually right! Do you know what I'm talking about? Of course you do. I'm the last to know.

So anyway, if you text me now, I'll probably text you back. Oh, boy! And I might send you a photo of a small dog chewing on a "beef by-product."

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Okay, we have established, among other interesting (or probably not) items, these two facts:

Suzi is technologically Amish

Suzi has no sense of direction. None whatsoever.

And that is why I must be the first person to own the car that drives itself. I found that marvel of modern technology at Techzoogle.

Just think of the possibilities! When I want to go to the same restaurant where I've been thirty times, I won't have to Mapquest the directions anymore! When I'm going to the Philadelphia airport from Reading, I won't do so via New Jersey!

I wonder if this car has Slow Treatment capability, because I'm not sure if I could live without the Slow Treatment. That's for when somebody honks at me. Oh, I'm not going fast enough for you? Oh, really? Well here you go. Hope you like 15 m.p.h.!

If you want to see some tech news that has stuff that is actually interesting to the average person, take a look at Techzoogle. Really. Most of the time, those technology sites are way too technical for me, but this one has a little of everything, it seems. They go into more detail and depth than I am capable of deciphering (in order to keep you nerds happy and challenged), but in each of their entries, I gain a little knowledge before my eyes glaze over. All kinds of gadgets are covered, including a flash drive that only works if you happen to have the fingerprint that unlocks it. Now that is cool. Something I have absolutely no need for, but would really like to have anyway.

Disclaimer: I do NOT go the speed limit in the left lane. I go the speed limit in the right lane. I don't like to speed, but I don't care what you do. Please feel free to pass me.

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Remember my friend Lisa? She's the one who likes to tear the limbs of sea creatures apart and then suck out their insides and eat them. For real.

Well, tomorrow, Lisa is having her uterus ripped out, right through her gine. For real.

Lisa has suffered long and suffered hard from a condition called Hormone-induced Berzerkitude, complicated by Uterus Bleedus Constantus and Random Unexpected Rage Flying. She is looking forward to those little issues being eradicated once and for all, but she is a complete basket case about the surgery itself. She is terrified of being put under anesthesia.

I can't say I blame her. With the way she treats animals of the sea, she obviously has some payback coming. To keep the world in balance, her doctor almost certainly has to be a giant stone crab, who will crack Lisa's legs apart, remove her uterus with a chilled fork, then swish it in lemon aioli and devour it, bite by sweet, juicy bite, with a side order of hot, skinny fries.

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Only I'm not. Oh, there was a time, in my youth, when I hung around with various musical people and their musical friends in their musical garages. Sometimes those dudes actually sounded pretty good. I'm sure they're all accountants and advertising execs and taxi drivers and parking lot attendants today, huh?

Today's bands have a little better chance of getting recognized that the bands of the olden days, when Laura and I lived on the prairie. Today Independent Bands can head on over to www.unsigned.com and upload samples of their music for the world to hear. Of course, by "the world" I mean hopefully "somebody who looks for unsigned artists to sign to their huge label and make them wealthy so they can be on Cribs next season."

Tonight I took Stanley, my visiting granddog, to Petsmart for a little outing. Here is what we bought:

(1) Big Mean Kitty
(1) Real Mad Cow
(1) Dental-type teeth-cleaning fake bone
(1) One chewy treat made out of a bull's penis (that'll attract some interesting searches)
(1) Bag of Science Diet Puppy Food, Small Bites
(1) Jar of Ear Cleaning pads
(1) Talking, basketball-toting bear, which Stanley wants to kill.
(1) Squeaky rubber chicken, rendered squeakless within 12 minutes
(1) Nylon covered crime scene outline shape, stuffed with fluff and a squeaker.
(2) Minidog-sized tennis balls
(1) Knuckle bone, from a gorilla, I think, basted in bacon grease and candle wax.

Stanley's favorite of all: Bull penis.

Remember that fake commercial on Saturday Night Live, for a product called The Woomba, a tiny automatic vacuum that beezers around cleaning yer lady bizness? I was reminded of that when I saw this website, pinkapple.com. It's sort of cool; you can find all sorts of stuff there, stuff that some people might find embarrassing to purchase in a regular store.

By "some people", I mean people like Daughter #1, who has never tried on a bra before buying it, preferring instead to pay cash, exact change, no receipt necesssary, thank you, and please do not make eye contact, lest somebody put two and two together and realize that she's sportin' a couple o' breasts.

Other people are not so easily embarrassed, and will proudly and willingly buy any product, anywhere, from anybody. By "other people," I mean people like Daughter #2, who finds it amusing when I yell to her from accross the grocery store, "Hey Kelly! Are these the mini pads you want? The thong ones? Or the heavy flow ones, you know, with the wings?" I swear, she would happily buy itchy gine cream from a cute male classmate. She is unflappable.

This site has stuff like pregnancy tests, gine odor neutralizer, special shaving cream for the girly blossom, condoms of all varieties. Stuff you shouldn't be embarrassed to buy. But you are, aren't you?

I have returned.

My grownup lady business trip was dandy. Driving from Philadelphia to Reading was no sweat, despite what everybody told me. I guess most people find it a real pain in the ass when they get all turned around and can't find their bearings, and that happens in PA because of all the twisty roads. For me, it's business as usual, because I have zero sense of direction, even on the best of days in the most familiar surroundings. I always have to have a map and directions, even to drive someplace I've been five times before, so really, going somewhere new is no different.

The first night of my stay at The Inn at Reading, I went a little nuts and bludgeoned my roommate to death. Here's a graphic photograph of the corpse:

What the heck is that? Look at those scary red eyes, man! The area was cordoned off, but the body was not removed. Evidently vacuuming isn't part of the housekeeping staff's daily routine, because it was still there when I left this morning. Its presence, combined with the bad dreams that resulted from watching TV shows about prison, and the paper thin walls which allowed me to know all my neighbors' night time urination schedules, did not lend itself to a good night's sleep.

Still, the most disconcerting aspect of the trip was this:

Appalling. The Inn at Reading should be ashamed of its caulk.

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Regular readers may recall that I have blogged about Tim Duncan's tattoo before. Lots of times.

I noticed a whole bunch of visitors searching for "Tim Duncan's Tattoo" after I blogged about a Timberwolves-Spurs game, and a dork with a dorky tattoo, but not Tim Duncan's tattoo. So then, I went looking for info, and a very nice person named Jenny sent me two good photos of Tim Duncan's Tattoos, one of a jester/cat sort of creature on his right shoulder blade, and another of Merlin the Magician on his left man boobie.

Since then, I make it a point to photograph Tim Duncan's Tattoo on every opportunity. Which means every time the Wolves play the Spurs in town AND OH BY THE WAY, BEAT THEM IN OVERTIME! OH BOY!

So here, for your enjoyment, I bring you Tim Duncan's Tattoo:

And close up:

Bonus! It appears that Mr. Duncan suffers from a little bacne! If somebody finds my blog by searching for "Tim Duncan's Bacne," I can die happy.

So, the other highlight of the evening, aside from some incredible basketball and an overtime win (so stop the hatin' on my T-Wolves, okay?), was this fine fellow, our neighbor to the left:

Yeah, baby. He had in his possession a treasure—a poster from Hooter's, where he and his buddy shared a couple beers and some wings on the way to the game. He was waving the poster so furiously that I couldn't capture it with my camera. Excited! Was! He! He and his middle-aged buddy were flirting with the beautiful Timberwolves dancers all evening, pointing at them and waving them over, as if they would drop their silvery pompoms in favor of a couple sweaty guys in ill-fitting polyester turtleneck. The ladies politely waved back, which would send these two into nervous hysteria.

Alrighty, then. I've done my Duncanly duty, and I'm outta here, leaving for Philadelphia in the morning. Coincidentally, the Timberwolves beat the Sixers tonight, again in overtime. I was toying with the idea of wearing my KG jersey to my meetings. Would that be unprofessional? But Pat pointed out that nobody in Philly cares about basketball. Their team is blah, they have no AI, and their football team is really really good, evidently, so that's where their loyalties lie. So no gloating for me.

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Holy emmeffing head explosion, Batman.

As you know from listening to my constant whining, I have migraine headaches. They've become much more frequent and much more awful in the past couple of years, and so I finally sought medical help, and was prescribed two medications: Inderal to prevent them, and Imitrex to get rid of them if the prevention doesn't work.

The Inderal is supposed to take about a month to start preventing headaches, and I've only been taking it since the day after Christmas. The Imitrex, however, has worked wonders. When I start to get the flickery vision, I take the Imitrex, and the headache goes away.

Ahhhh, but here's the catch…I have to take the Imitrex right at the beginning, at the flickery vision point.

Last night, I evidently slept through the flickery vision stage, and woke up in mid-migraine, and evidently Imitrex doesn't do jack for migraines once they're at that point, so I was screwed. I was in bed all. Damn. Day.

One of the symptoms of migraines, for me, is extremely acute vision. My eyesight becomes so sharp that it hurts to look at stuff. It's weird. This bionic vision thing carries into my whacked-out dreams, too. And remember how I think it's boring to hear about other peoples' dreams, but I still like to bore people with my own? Well, here you go:

Just as I was drifting off to sleep and wishing I would die, I started thinking about a fabulous gift I received in the mail yesterday from Les and Canadian Mark and Kyla. They were kind enough to send me an official Canada Mosquito Trap. It's a little teeny steel trap, designed to work just like a bear trap, only smaller, because Canada (and Minnesota, for that matter) mosquitoes are just slightly smaller than bears. So I was thinking about that nice gift, and then I started to think about something peaceful to distract me from wanting to impale my head on a butcher knife, and I envisioned a lovely landscape with snow-capped mountains, and a little stream, and some puffy clouds, and tall pines, green grass, and a small field of pretty red flowers. Then, juuuuust at the drifting off point, it was as if I was behind something like the lens of a camera, a realllllly powerful zoom lens, and I focused on the flowers. Then I zoooooomed in on them, then on one flower, then just one petal. It was if I were actually moving through the lens, if that makes sense. So then I zoooooomed in on a steel bear trap, and zoomed further to a mosquito leg in the bear trap, and the last thing I remember is that the mosquito's leg had a scrape on the knee.

And then I slept. And then I got up. And I still have the damn headache. Please feel sorry for me. Please also forgive me for the delay in posting the latest photos of Tim Duncan's Tattoo.

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Buying a new cell phone makes me crabby. I hate it. I hate how buying a cell phone is so much more complicated and difficult than buying anything else.

Kelly has been using an old, wrecked phone since she dropped her nice one into the toilet about three days after she got it. So I was at the mall, feeling generous, and I thought I stop in to T-Mobile and get her a better phone. Turns out it was not to be.

They wouldn't sell me a phone. Really! They wanted to talk all about our contract, and extending it, and giving me a phone. Okay, so I was ready to do whatever it was they wanted me to do, but then, NOPE! They wouldn't sell me a phone or extend my contract, because the contract is in my husband's name, so he'd have to be the one to do that.

Honestly. We never have an issue like this with anybody else who has one of our names or the other on the account, like the regular phone company, the utilities, the water department, credit cards. What a pain.

So I was just poking around over at this web site that sells cell phones and cell phone service, and they sell all different kinds of plans, for all different companies, and all different kinds of phones. You can compare the different options, all in one place. This beats the heck out of running around the mall to all the different cell phone stores. Plus, they offer free shipping and a 100% satisfaction guarantee.

Timberwolves over Spurs. In overtime. Sneaky photos of Tim Duncan's Tattoo. Good ones. Love Ginobli, Duncan; but love KG, Mark Blount, Ricky Davis, Randy Foye, Mad Dog waaaay more. Very Nice Boss and his Very Nice wife win opportunity to dance in Dancing With the Stars, the tour, at the Excel Center. Back to work at the job I love love love love love and 150 emails. Grownup Lady Business Trip to Philadelphia this weekend. Presents in the mail, all the way from a foreign land. Leftover roast beast is yummier than freshly roasted roast beast. No sleep last night, due to migraine medication combined with migraine -induced extra acute vision that made all the shadows in my bedroom three-dimensional. Must sleep. Details tomorrow.

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Last night my parents came over for dinner, and to say goodbye for the winter. They head to Arizona every year about this time. Vehicles are packed. Newspaper stopped. Housesitter firmly ensconced. Departure is scheduled for 0800 hours.

So while we're gorging ourselves on roast beast and vegetables, my dad decides that he's not quite ready to go. Still has some vague "things to do." My mom, on the other had, is VERY! READY! TO GO! TO SCOTTSDALE! WHERE IT'S WARM! AND THERE'S A POOL!

Hilarity ensues as Mom tries to talk Dad into leaving later tomorrow, and when she isn't successful, she tries to get him to commit to leaving Thursday. He just keeps shrugging. I believe this is what we call yanking Mom's chain.

Meanwhile, Rose survived her first blizzard away from home the other night, on New Year's Eve. Of course, there was much drama, including leaving her car parked in front of her house until it was too buried to move it effortlessly to the garage (somehow my fault), not owning a shovel (also my fault), substandard mittens that have the nerve to get wet when used to dig out buried cars using only a bucket of some sort (me again), snow emergency rules (Dad's fault), small dogs who like to spaz around in snow, but are less fond of pooping in it (Stanley's fault), and a very loving uncle coming to the rescue with a snowblower, even though the Yulebach is about to begin.

Tomorrow, it's back to work.

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Okay, I am a 43-year-old adult. I oughtta be able to STAY FOCUSED long enough to get some stuff accomplished! I guess I'll cut myself some slack and attribute it to the wonky schedule of the holidays, but that's over, man!

I go back to work tomorrow, and I'm looking forward to getting back to normal life.

Here's what I wanted to accomplish today:

Drive Kelly to school. Grocery store. Finish Happy New Year cards. Make dinner.

Sounds fairly simple, right?

Here's how it's played out so far:

Drive Kelly to school. Grocery store. Forget butter. Forget lightbulbs. Unload groceries. Read a little Marley and Me. Nap. Blog. Read blogs. Email. Start rolls. Mysterious power outage. Peel carrots and potatoes. Rolls rising longer than they should. Foot cramps. Read a little Marley and Me. Nap. Dream of puppies. Foot cramps. Power back on. Rolls in the oven. Eat a banana. Blog.

Fortunately, this sort of life doesn't make me frantic. I'm calmly distracted and disorganized, but I know I'm happier when I make better use of my time. I think I need this time management guide to help me get a grip. Hey, maybe I could even figure out how to have time to go to the gym regularly again. If I'd just replace a little bit of read or blog, I could fit that in.

Old Guy!

I've just drawn OG's name from the Timberwolves Santa Hat, from among the four entrants for December (Les, Cindy, Peggy, and Old Guy) for half the bucks I made from making posts for advertisers through PayPerPost.

So, Old Guy, I'm off to PayPal. Unfortunately, I didn't do all that much bloggin' for dollars in December, because I was just too dang busy. Still, you can look for seventy-one and one-half American dollars to put toward your new camera.

Thanks for playing, folks! Be sure to drop me a comment or an email and let me know if you want to be in the running for the January bucks.

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