M. and I are watching what could be the last game of the 2007 World Series.
Best part of the bar is watching the drunks fall off the mechanical bull. For reals, the bar calls the bull “Bull Buckner.” Here the cheers for the Sox outnumber the Rockies, though

Aak me about my non- alcoholic boyfriend.

At around 8 a.m. M. queued up with the other kids and aimed himself down Route 1, the Pacific Coast Highway for about 51 miles.

Let’s see if email posting works.

Sent from my iPhone

There are arguably sights that are sadder than a middle-aged gal sprawled on the curb with her bike wheels spinning out from under her. But, they are few and far between.
Bless M. himself. He smiled, but didn’t laugh as hard as I would have done. .

Testing the posting by mail. Sadly, here’s the kind of thing my beau sends during the workday.

> I just saw this.

Cursed. That’s what it amounts to — or without the awkward preposition dangling, and a different kind of awkard — Cursed is that to which it amounts.

Yeah, I fucked my own karma and M.’s too.

My thought at the eve of the new year whilst showering this morning was, “Huh, the suck part of an uneventful, rather contented life is no fucking good stories.” With the large amount of shithead guys of the past, I was guaranteed an awesomely tragic New Year’s Eve. Tears, for sure, maybe some yelling, perhaps an unanswered phone call or 386, woe, misery and the sense of shattered expectation and bad choices.

Ah, the good old days. Days of drama. Days of sturm und drag, sound and fury, rage and tears.

Good stories.

Now, I thought, what have I got. Peace with no narrative.

Until, the curse. Going out to the car and finding the glove comparment mysteriously open. Weird. Until M. looks up to the hole slashed into the convertible’s rag top, and sunlight filtering in where it ain’t meant to be. Fuck me.

The GPS device, not covered by insurance, has gone the way of the buffalo, or more apropos the way of the scumbag youth, likely. Unfortunately, not an endangered species.
The car, and it’s attached but now sliced in a few places roof, is covered by insurance. But, not until after the fucking $500 deductible.

Now, and here’s where my cursing M. comes in, we’re at the HMO HQ. Looks like he’ll be getting the last X-Ray of 2006.

Seems kicking a box in impotent rage and frustration over the aforementioned burglary was a poor decision for the big toe of M.

Results and news of anything beyond bruising to be told.

Merry fucking New Year.

Electronics be my biggest thrill and my bestest friend.

I’m sitting in a hotel ballroom. There are Powerpoint slides. There are numbers. Statistics actually.
My brain is melting. Ideas are oozing out on an empty river of non-focus. My ass is numb.

But I got me the interweb, a system of tubes with bytes and digital fun stuff to distract me. I’ve been able to keep tabs with the hotel staff, make dinner reservations for 15 people and read up on sophomoric comedy doings.

Thank fucking god for my Danger Sidekick.

Meanwhile, I will never love and embrace meetings. I’d link to some exciting weblog postings in the past, but we are doing group things now requiring me to feign interest.