Well, it's off to Chicago today. I've gotta go secretly stuff an ass-load of presents in the trunk of the car, along with all our bags, shoes, boots, coats, cameras, and all the other crap we somehow can't do without for seven days. Sure, a minivan would make the whole production a fuck of a lot easier, but I just can't commit to being a minivan person. I mean, if I do that, then you might as well shave off my hair, make me grow a goatee, dress me in some dockers and a turtleneck and then shoot me in the fucking head. And I'm not ready to be shot in the head... yet. Ask me in seven days.
So, yeah, perfect timing for the trip. Mr. Z and Miss O are both getting colds and their snot-cocoons should be nicely formed by xmas day. I don't know if any of the shit we ordered online actually arrived at my parent's house yet. I'm sure we'll be hit by a blizzard in Indiana when we get on the Skyway. And, I think my thumb is infected. There's some kinda cut under the nail, and the whole tip of my thumb is throbbing and warm, kinda like Fred Flintstone's thumb, after a giant boulder crushes it at the quarry. I'm telling ya, this is going to be the BEST XMAS EVER!!
Maybe I am ready to be shot in the head.
Anywhich, I'm going to try to keep posting from my folk's house. Unfortunately, the computer is in the room Miss O sleeps in, so I have to tap-tap the keys ever-so-quietly, for fear of waking her and suffering the who-deigned-to-rouse-me Miss O wrath.
I'm off, then. Let me just grab a couple suitcases here, and--OW! MY FUCKING THUMB!