This will be a rumbly post, because that is the mood I'm in. I had to get up at 6am. Make that '6 fricking am' because that is the way I think of it. I had a fun breakfast meeting downtown that started at 8:30, so that meant stumbling out in the dark, joining an insanely long lineup at Tim's for a giant tea, then onto the highway. I should have made it a smaller tea. Stuff goes right through you.
Starting my day out on its head meant restarting it at noon, when I got home. I'd driven in that ugly kind of weather that keeps your windshield perpetually covered in crud. I'm not driving my car, which I keep topped up with squirter stuff at all times, but the Porsche. I was worried about running out, and I knew if I called and asked Mr. Bye if it was full, he'd only call me names. See: my last blog entry.
I have a piece in the Globe that I'd forgotten about. My editor asked for a Valentines rant a month ago, and I wrote a piece and promptly forgot. It wasn't ranty, but he accepted it anyway. I don't think you need to be ranty on Valentines Day. Instead I wrote about cars in my teens, what the guys drove, and what impressed me. Of course some commenters have decided I was some kind of wanton hussy, which made me giggle madly. Guess they haven't figured out my father used to sit on the front step with a shotgun across his lap.
I would like our dear Mr. Harper to read this. Well, he can also read about my dating years, if he likes, but this is the one that matters. Two business execs have been sentenced to 16 years in prison and millions in fines over asbestos. An Italian court found them liable for causing the deaths of over 2,000 people, due to asbestos fibres. You know. Asbestos. That cancer causing weapon we insist on mining, and this Conservative government insists on exporting. Go, Italy, and thank you.
A current favourite of mine, Tim Dowling, has a lovely bit today. He writes in the Guardian, but he lives in Denver. That's easy to forget, until he mentions snow. Writing about a spontaneous family moment, he notes this:
These rare outbreaks of harmony invariably coincide with one of the children being missing – it doesn't matter which one. This might lead you to conclude that three children is too many and two the perfect number, but it doesn't work like that. You have to have the extra one to get the benefit of its absence.
I dunno. I just liked it. It's just a lovely observance, and a true one. And no, I don't have a third kid I've been keeping from you.
Ah, well. Off to finish some work up, see who's bashing me for being a tramp, and deciding if I really need to go do some cardio at the Y. My training is going well, if by well I mean a weird overall pain in parts of my body that apparently have muscle in them. Somewhere. Oh, and I bought sporty new shoes. I decided that every 15 years, I get new sneakers. I took Ari because he needed shoes, and before I knew it I was holding a pair and yoohooing him from across the store. He loves it when I do that.