There have been about three or four posts come and gone since Sunday. I write'em and then just as I'm about to upload-- I delete. Blame it on the tsunami. Consciousness can be such a drag.

One of the self-centered, self-absorbed, utterly inconsequential bits of tripe was about my upcoming intervention. But I deleted it so I forget how it goes. I think it went something like Tara called me four gazillion times over the holidays and began getting suspicious when T kept telling her I was indisposed.

Then, when she finally did get me on the phone I think I might have said something about wanting to bone one of the foundation guys which probably frightened her since if you could bring to mind the most wretched bar in the universe that stank and had no working toilets and beers are served in glasses with fingerprints (not yours) --you know the place I'm talking about? (No? Consider yourself lucky). Okay, now picture the most foul wretch in the bar whose clothes are covered in dry concrete and dirt and whose hair is so --- ARRGH. I just grossed myself out. You get the picture and why she might have been distressed. Perhaps her distress was accentuated when I said something about being so overjoyed at seeing the sand truck arrive that I wanted to bone the sandman-- the guy who came and sanded our half mile drive (that goes up a freaking hill and has a hairpin turn just before the top) that was sheeted in 2 inches of ice Monday morning. Who is, fyi, the aged, toothless father of concrete guy.

Now, I ask you. Does she not understand hyperbole? Does she not understand the isolation of country life and the joy of house foundations and the elation of being rescued and set free from ice imprisonment?

Obviously not. Because she called me at work yesterday. At work! Unheard of-- she is the consummate professional and I am, well, not. An intervention has been planned. I am going down to Boston for the weekend and she has all sort of lovely events lined up to help bring me back from the hairy edge.

I will bring my new camera and attempt to record some of it-- but no promises as me and Lulu (yes I named it-- feck off) are still in the courting stage and have not yet developed a strong relationship. Don't get me wrong. There's a whole lotta infatuation here. Just a bit short of anything resembling competency. So I'll take pics--- there's just no promise I'll be posting pics . . I'm just saying.

And, if you are wondering about the jpegs interspersed here--- this is the brainchild of Sheryl.

Lurkers. Feel the love. It's your day!

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