I think among the reasons I have had a vague, yet continuous, headache is the fabulous work ethic of the siding guys. Those guys don’t stop from 7-7:30 a.m. until darkness makes it impossible to continue.

For the first couple of weeks, they were banging and sawing on the side of the house away from my bedroom with the hallway acting as a sound-absorbing buffer. Now that they bang around just past my headboard through what must be a half inch wall (judging only by the effectiveness of sound wave transmission), I almost pray for less industrious contractors, ones with a work ethic such as mine (currently non-existent).

I can’t remember from last week if they take Sundays off, but I fucking hope Jesus stills their tools for one peaceful day.

I didn’t shower today (although I vigorously sponged myself and washed my hair in the kitchen sink). By this action I have skeeved out and alienated my gentleman friend. Even over a distance of 3,000 miles, he expects his woman to be clean.

It’s too bad if my hygiene comes between us, as I have begun Christmas shopping. I’d have to find another guy with a similar build and tastes for the stocking stuffers I’ve picked up.

Just in case, if you are an American with an entreprenurial spirit who likes the color black, reads non-fiction, is into fitness and has a fit, trim body, send me an email.

I have no great ideas at all for Christmas shopping sadly.

I spent awhile flipping through a good 30 pounds of old photographs. I think it’s time to throw away the truly shitty and useless and gather the rest into albums to conserve space. Throwing away out of focus or otherwise terrible or stupid would bring the number down to one page.

I thought about making a family album to give to my sister or possibly one of my sisters-in-law, who I think would dig it, with an assortment of old school pictures and stuff from all of us mixed with the next generation. Unfortunately, the old bag of pics my mother made me carry away one day a few years back is thinner than it should be. It contains a handful of photos, where I remember a fair amount, and two siblings are missing entirely.

There is one picture of yours truly. I’m five, and it’s my kindergarten picture. Portrait of the artist as a young dork. I might scan and post it alongside my headshot, so you can track the dork effect across four decades.

Not having the pictures I thought also thwarts the joke gift I was thinking of for M., namely a collage of me. The sheer ego of making a self-collage for someone else tickles me (although the time required versus the laugh resulting may be skewed to make me seem just an egomaniacal dick). Probably, it’s better this way.

Besides, I’m sure he would much prefer a collage of himself.