UNEDITED TRAIN OF THOUGHT. ENTER AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION (AND QUITE POSSIBLY BOREDOM)

I am in deep shit, as I 'seem' to have lost a cap for one of my dad's wheels. I thought while he was out of town I'd give my little bro my wheels and just keep Dad's in case of errands, etc. (or the need to leisurely cruise around in a car that appears as if I have a lofty income -- or any at all).

Dad is on the other end of the planet right now. Like if you could draw a line THROUGH earth, you might find him. Probably in a kabob restaurant with his family, laughing at stories he hasn't heard because 13 years has passed and the least they can do is have tales to regale him with. He is equally liable to be in a mosque sneaking pictures, oh tricky tourist! I kinda wish he asked me to go with, but he didn't. Still licking that wound. I'm not sure that I actually want to go back right now, but it would have been nice to see it from his point of view - film a mental documentary as I wandered around with him, peeking out from under my scarf that wouldn't make me pass out because it's only spring. Instead of battling waves of heat-induced nausea, I might actually have enjoyed myself. I miss him, so it's going to be a long three weeks.

Other thoughts in no particular order:

The plants on my balcony aren't doing a good job of staying alive. I hold this against them. I am a woman, therefore a nurturer, so GROW you BASTARDS! Even my friggin plants challenge my femininity.

I keep telling people I'll watch Braveheart with them. But I don't want to. And every time it comes up in conversation with a new person, I feign the same motivation and interest. I am living a lie.

No one seems to have the answer as to why in baseball there is a manager instead of a coach. This is starting to annoy me.

I need to get (another) job. Like "lottery winner". Or "heiress to the Heinz empire".

As much as I whined about being a little worn out around the wedding and all the frenetic activity that surrounded it, I think I'm suffering some variation on letdown. I tried to convince Gene to do a Gregorian chant interpretation of "Who Let the Dogs Out?" at his next show. If that's not a sign of depression, what is? ;)