True story: I finished my project today at….4:59 p.m. When quittin’ time comes at quittin’ time, life is good.

Of course, I sat down at my other desk at 4:59 a.m., so the day wasn’t exactly a cakewalk. Still, the last half of it was done at my very own desk w/view and breeze. There’s work you do to afford to do the work you do, and do be do be do this sentence makes no sense. Perhaps I should pour myself a glass of wine. At least then I’d have an excuse.

(Later.)

I no longer care if the sentences make no sense. What is it costing you to be here?

What a gorgeous weekend. Although I’ve found the lovely, coolish summer heavenly, it was nice to get one last blast of sunny ‘n’ hot before we have to give it all up. We went to the lake, of course — four adults, a kid, a bird and a dog crammed into our 450-square-foot cottage, and for once, no one got on my nerves, not once. The lake never got to that bathwater temperature it frequently is by now, so swimming was sublime. Paddling was better, except that the swans are gone. The red-winged blackbirds are gone, too. But the ducks were all over the place, so I don’t know what that means, whether they’re flocking before migration or just taking advantage of the crabby swan family’s absence to enjoy the nice real estate. But all around, everything’s ready to die. The lily pads are the size of trashcan lids, and looking sort of peeled up at the edges. The weed beds are a bit stinky. The air has that slanty look. It’s dark at 8. Deep sigh.

But I’m a grownup, and I get off work at 1 p.m. Still a few weeks of the good stuff for me.

Of course, I don’t live in Florida. Carolyn? You guys OK down there? Keeping those shutters up?

(By the way, let’s ask Pat Robertson if God is trying to tell Florida something with all these hurricanes, why don’t we? “Don’t try any funny stuff with the voting this time, Jeb,” maybe? Just wondering.)

I don’t want to change the subject too abruptly, but I stumbled across one of those cool Find Out Which Presidential Candidate Your Neighbors Are Donating To sites, and I could scarcely tear myself away. I did some zip-code surfing (recommended), some last-name surfing (also recommended), and found, when I looked up, 45 minutes had passed. I discovered my distant relative-by-marriage, Loretta Nall, who is semi-famous for being an unjustly persecuted pothead, gave $750 to Dennis Kucinich. A Mrs. Nancy W. Nall (not I) gave $500 to Dubya. The real revelation was the zip code of my upbringing, 43221, which apparently is going for Kerry to a degree I find astonishing. It was — it is — heavy-duty GOP country, and yet it appears to have turned into San Francisco, with Buckeye football. I may have to move back.

I never paid much attention to Slate’s The Fray, their reader-participation feature, but maybe I should:

I already knew (Zell Miller) was nuts when he set forth his basic premise. He said that this election is all about terrorism, and that he was planning to vote for Bush because Bush was “the only man” he could trust to “protect my children.”

And moreover, how come I can go to work 5 blocks from the New York Stock Exchange every day and not be scared of these fuckers, and “this old marine” can’t drive his grandkids to Sunday School in Boola-Boola, Georgia without seeing bomb-toting mullahs in the shrubbery?

Long live snark.

Tomorrow: Highs in the low 70s, mostly sunny. More, please more.