Christmas palm trees. The leaves are a bit too dark, so it’s a bit like
Santa’s jolly dildo.

These are the pics taken on my sidekick…

Working on sending posts from my new toy.

It takes an huge act of will for me to be able to type the next sentence.

Hal-fucking-lejah for the Pope up there in Rome and the other
Catholics of the world.

Finally, a speck of something not shit-like floating from the world of religiousity.

The Vatican actually sees some light and keeps science in the realm of
not “intelligient design.” Sure, these are the same guys who fucked
with Galileo, but for a moment I will bask in the glory of one holy
and apostolic church.

Actually, make that Boo – fucking – hoo.

No parties this weekend, but that’s alright, there was a marathon to run. It’s Monday night, so it seemed too much work to head into the city to see the freaks in the Castro (not to mention, everyone complains that the tourists gawking now outnumber the actual freaks).

With the above, I thought, OK, fair enough, but it’s still Halloween for satan’s or christ’s sake, depending on your point of view. At least we had a big bowl of candy with the prospect of trick or treaters. I like trick or treaters, or at least the little, little kids who are dazed and confused and largely mortified by the doorbell ringing, stranger’s door, can’t remember my lines, prompted “trick or treat,” mumbling “thank you” ritual.

Candy bowl by the door we cooked dinner and waited. Not one ring. Either we got home too late at 7 or my new ‘hood just doesn’t swing to Halloween. Given the demographics, maybe we should be holding out in the next couple of days for a rocking Día de los Muertos.

Fucking hell, have I been exhausted or what? The work retreat to Mexico kicked my lily white, suburban ass. Man, just surviving in a place without words that can be understood tires me.

Actually, it was pretty fun, and the new boss sure can squeeze a lot out of folks in mere 24-hour day. There was very little down time and very much together time. Fabulously for me, I sharpened no spoon into a shiv and refrained from going to town in a claustrophic (or whatever the fuck it would be) tremor of too much contact with humanity.

Nope, I made nice and mostly played nice, and who the fuck would believe it, mostly enjoyed the folk with whom I was in stir, incarcerated for the life of knocking the kinks out of a strategic plan. (Although my note to self before leaving was not to liken the remote location and total immersion into work to a hostage crisis to my boss, I did. But, I also assured her that Stockholm syndrome was kicking in, so that evens it out right?)

Everything is A-OK here in the Left Coast.

But I was thrilled to my marrow to be back home, in our cute place with my cute man. Kindly, he picked me right up, carried my bag and took me to brunch. I even got the impression he missed my face around the place called home.

My theory on the possibilty that I was missed is based on the plan hatching done whilst I was detained. My boy-o wants to take a long, long, fucking long overdue trip to his homeland, where he can now go triumphantly under the auspices of the red, white and blue. I sense that while I was traveling far and wide, he was thinking WE should be traveling far and wide.

I fully admit, however, it was difficult to embrace the prospect initially, at least while my entire body was still concrete-heavy with post-Mexico fatigue. Today, I’m close to recovery and warming up very nicely to a longish vacation and exotic voyage.

I wonder, if I skip my western holiday schedule, which would involve a trip east, and go for the Chinese New Year celebration a bit later, which would be a trip so east I would need to head west, I wonder if my family would notice?

Perhaps the notice-taking would be in the form of a relief sigh.

By the way, on the life imitates reality TV scene, the new boss made us eat bugs.

So there’s an expression about how the other half lives. I ain’t got nothing on how that might be, but I seen books and stories and all that about living large.

Looks like, though, I might find out a bit about it.

Given that I don’t know how the rich live first hand, I had the regular people issue of how am I getting to the airport for our big retreat. While figuring if M. needed to tell his boss that he’d have to be a little late in order to cart me off to my flight, I had a brainstorm. I remembered that (a) duh, it’s like a work trip and like that meant they’d be paying expenses and (b) three other people on the team live south of the airport (and work) just like me. Ding, ding, ding, car pool.

I mention it to my boss. She thinks it’s a swell idea if I rally the people from my direction together, and I can hire a car service on the company dime. We talk about asking other folks what car service they use, and I should do likewise, which I do.

Last Friday, I called the place that was recommended to me, because they are prompt and comfortable and reliable. I didn’t think of either conveyance or cost, because the car company had been vetted by use. Got the number, placed the call and discussed what I needed.

“Oh, OK, four people and luggage, yeah, so you’ll need a stretch.” A fucking prom-ready, stretch limousine.

Retard, simple-living, Pat-channeling me panicked. I clumsily got off the phone, saying I had to check out costs at some other places and would get back to them, blah fucking blah.

In my head was Pat, loud and clear, “You can’t do that, you can’t do that, you can’t do that.” What was I thinking? Who did I think I was? A stretch limo?

Reality check is that, um, what was I thinking they would offer? It’s a car service to the airport from one of the country’s more expensive neighborhoods. I work in the bosom of venture capitalist country. I work at a rather wealthy place. The car service has done business there before and they know that.

Somehow, however, I envisioned a station wagon (with me sitting in the wayback, bumping along with the luggage) or a minivan. I hadn’t really thought through the limo concept.

I checked the price with my boss, and economically, it’s fine and dandy. What’s the difference between four people paying for a cab, parking, mileage or whatever to the airport separately versus sharing a car, right? It’s cheaper in the prom mobile.

My mother’s voice in my head aside, much is just an economy I ain’t used to living. Take the hotels, where we’ll be sojourning. My boss ragged on the dumpiness of one of them, saying it was a cut below the usual. I looked it up on the Interrnet. I guarantee it’s about 2-3 cuts above where I would be staying on my own.

The title line should end “in-out, in-out, just came to read the meter.”

Guess the movie reference and win absolutely nothing.

I got no time to write, though, the baby is returning in just four hours. Picking him up at the airport, and we’re going to go peep some leaves up in Vermont (from where apparently leaves come).

I ain’t never done a romantic-ish, autumn in VT kind of dealio. Sure, I’ve been to Vermont (I’ll never forgive my oldest brother for going to school up in the northern country). The jaunts to look at leaves and eat cider donuts and shit in the autum chill were fucking godawful treks to my 13-year-old self.

My memories include puking up some French onion soup at some wonderous New England fallfest, my aunt pissing off some Canadian French dude with her Parisian French in nearby Montreal, sleeping in bunk beds with my mother (scarring), my must have been 15/16-year-old brother getting carsick repeatedly and annually (couldn’t have been the drinking in the woods the night before the trek) and missing the Stones on “Saturday Night Live,” because the dinky condo TV antenna was unable to reach beyond the mountain valley in which we were nestled. (Yup, kids, I lived before the days of cable and satellite dishes.)

As much as I loved dear old Pat, you did not really want to car trip with this woman. It was a ruthless ride without pity or stops to pee or snack. And, of course, the aforementioned carsick brother and I arguing, punctuated with Pat’s pleading for peace and silence and haranguing on why she ever had such children anyway.

It wasn’t so much leaf-peeping as leaf abuse.

I’m hoping for greener pastures with this trip with M. Sure, he tsks and sighs at me and my remarks as much as Pat ever did. But, he generally wants to pee or eat more than I do, so at least I will be more comfortable.

Who knows, maybe this will be my last New England autumn, a season I really do adore.

I for one will sleep easier tonight knowing that GWB doesn’t intend to appoint any pro-slavery Supreme Court Justices.