Now that Kate’s safely back in school and will likely stay there for a while, I’m daring to let my days take a work-related shape again, if a little screwy in form. I now shower around lunchtime, for instance, which makes for some strange phone calls sometimes.
“Can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something,” I told one of Kate’s friends’ dads the other day. It sounded so much better than “Guess what I’m wearing, tiger. Nothing!”
Actually, he had a pretty good story to tell, and I stood in the shower, head full of suds, listening for most of it. He had been trying to get back to Detroit before Rita hit, and his aircraft had been swapped for a smaller one, so the larger plane could be used to get people out of Houston. Apparently the transition and rebooking hadn’t gone well.
“We could have one of these a week, and FEMA still couldn’t figure out how to handle it.” You don’t say.
Good thing modern phones are equipped to handle shower conditions.
It’s probably good that I work alone, in a little hive of isolation. I’ve obviously lost my news judgment and shouldn’t be in newspapers anymore — I was sure the Ashley Smith meth story was going to be a big talker today, but alas. It probably helps that this was revealed on the same day Tom DeLay was indicted, but even in the morning, it was sort of bleah. I eagerly await Peggy Noonan’s skinback, but I doubt it’s coming. At the end, I think Steve Gilliard may be right: Jesus Christ, if she was black, people would rip her a new asshole.
In the midst of this long, contemplative day I actually worked fairly hard and got a lot of key-clattering done. What this means is: I don’t want to do any more. I encourage you to check the comments on the jelly post down below and read Mary’s account of how she went toe-to-toe with Leona Helmsley and not only lived to tell about it, but made the Queen her very own bitch. (And without giving her so much as a whiff of meth.)
I’ll probably be back mid-morning or so. For now, my red-hot burning eyeballs must rest.