Finally, after a request by the lovely Ms. Goatwax, I switched out Trebuchet for Arial as the body copy on this here site, and made it a point size larger. Goodbye, foo-foo typeface.
Over the last couple of weeks, my Powerbook has gotten really slow and gloopy. Redraws, switching between programs, or using Photoshop for anything more than simple pixel-pushing have all gotten unacceptably slow and gummy. It could be that SuperScout here has just gotten tired in her old age—according to this site she was manufactured in April of 2000—but this is getting a little ridiculous.
I think it’s going to be difficult to find somebody to adopt Penn. Looking at some of the local adoption sites, there seems to be a backlog of adoptable cats. I’m a lot worried about leaving him at a Petco for the afternoon by himself, like some of these organizations suggest. This whole mess sucks and I’m really depressed about it.
Seems to me that the Democrats (otherwise known as shrinking violets) need to get serious about things. Why isn’t anybody seriously leading a charge to have Rove prosecuted? Um, he’s like, the main Republican power broker in Washington, guys. It’s about time one of his dirty tricks gets him in trouble, no? And, please do it before they shut down Public Broadcasting and make the stupid Patriot Act permanent, OK?
After sending over an arborist to look at the tree which divides our property yesterday, my neighbor bumped into me in the driveway this morning. We chatted briefly, and he turned to me suddenly and asked, “Do I smell alcohol on your breath?”
Dumbfounded, I said, “No, sir, I don’t drink in the morning.” I won’t repeat here what I wanted to say, even though I don’t think he’s ever seen the internet. Nevermind the fact that I was getting into my car when we saw each other. What the fuck?
I’m seriously considering selling my Scout. She’s been sitting in the driveway for the past two years rusting, all because our garage is a piece of shit and I can’t afford the repairs needed make it useable. (If it actually had a cement floor, that would be one thing, but it doesn’t.) I can’t afford to buy a new fiberglas tub—if the last five years have told me anything, it’s that that’s not going to happen—and the pipe dream of having somebody restore the body for me remains just that—a pipe dream. It would be one thing if I had been able to store her two years ago before the rust got exceptionally bad; if gas prices were still $1.50/gal; if the exhaust hadn’t fallen off at a point when finances were very slim; or if I’d been able to find somebody willing to tackle the bodywork.
The aforementioned neighbor’s son offered to buy her on Sunday when he showed me where he thought the property lines were (and he smelled like alcohol, thankyouverymuch), but I’d rather sell it to somebody I could trust her to, like the guy around the corner on Hilton who has a running ’78, or the Scout guy in Annapolis who’d at least be able to part her out correctly.
I’d like to have a running convertible of some kind as a third car, and a used Miata is looking better and better all the time.
Night three on the Sleep Number bed seemed to go pretty well. We’re both sleeping soundly (although I’m sleeping less heavily than I did before). I’m still at 50, and it seems to agree with me.
My ankle is still tender and sore, but much better than the weekend of the 4th. I’m not going to be doing any ladder climbing this coming weekend (at this rate the house will be completely painted by 2014) but there are a million other things to be done that’ll keep me busy.