>Another big day ahead of me, and I should be sleeping. I can’t blame it on construction workers this time, though. The sleeplessness is probably due to my blogging addiction.
Earlier this evening, my blog stopped working. I freaked out. You’d have thought that someone died or that Husband forgot to feed Tycho Bunnae once again. (OK, the latter is true, but Tycho is so damn fat now that he grunts from the effort it takes for him to lick his ass. Not good. A missed meal or two is clearly not going to kill him, and even if he doesn’t have fresh veggies, he can still pig out on hay and hard food.) After an online chat with Dustin at WestHost, it was determined that my “index.html was erased.” Do I know what the fuck that means? No. Who cares what went wrong as long as it could be fixed, and it doesn’t happen again. I mean, an erased index sounds scary. Anyhoo, it was fixed and although I initially lost all the lovely comments that people left as well as my last post, it all reappeared after I republished the index. Whew!
Today I am running errands (surprise, surprise) that include: turned the Haven Coalition cell phone over to the next phone volunteer; buying fingerless gloves, which upon initial impression sound like a completely useless product, but when you think of them as arm warmers, are in fact brilliant; using my $5 coupon for various products at Duane Reade, the pharmacy that is as ubiquitous in Manhattan as Starbucks; calling various editors to see if they want to publish my nuggets of wisdom; meeting a delightful friend for lunch (damn, I am a lady who lunches); and meeting Husband by his office in Connecticut to accompany him on an exciting business trip to Albany, our thrilling state capital. Isn’t it great that he spent a week in Rome and Milan without me, but brings me along to Albany? (Which makes me think of one of my favorite random songs I learned as a wee one, “15 Miles from the Erie Canal.” I’ve always liked that the female mule was named Sal.) He promised I can go to Italy with him next time, so I’m not really complaining. (I don’t think I really have that right since I am a lady who lunches.)
Between my luncheon appointment and training it up to Connecticut, I will hit the OB-GYN’s office, where my blood will be sampled to determine if I am 1 in 100 lucky women who hit menopause between the ages of 30-39 (and possibly even 1 in a 1,000 who hit that milestone in her roaring ‘20s – I’ve always been advanced for my age). If the test comes back positive, I reserve the right to call myself a hag without getting flack from anyone.