Doing Bad Things

I have returned from the great state of Oklahoma. And, yes, I actually do mean "great." It was surprisingly lovely and green, and the Sonics out there served wads of fried cheddar cheese.

Also, a Peanut was born!

I arrived back in California in a good mood, though I have found myself unable to hang on to that mood and am now officially in full grump-mode.

Coming home to an empty house is even less pleasant than I anticipated. After being with someone for over eight years you kind of get used to having them around, but Poncho is on tour for five more weeks. Ugh. I'm trying to convince myself that it's fun to have so much alone time to just indulge in my favorite things and sleep diagonally across the bed, but so far it's just not that great.

Also, the cable company was supposed to fix the window while I was gone, but they totally did not. And our last apartment sent us our move-out paperwork without our deposit, which means I'm going to have to spend a better part of my afternoon calling and yelling at people for being bumholes.

And now my personal favorite: I got the bill(s) for my sprained ankle. Sprained. Not mangled by a riding mower and surgically rebuilt, just sprained. I got one bill for $12, another for $200, and yet another for $1400. That's like $1600 for them to give me and X-ray and a pair of crutches and sending me off.

So that's been my life in the two days since returning to California: loneliness, dealing with jerkfaces, and being financially sodomized by the healers of America.


And I caught up on Desperate Housewives. This season is pretty good so far. I've always liked Julie. I'm holding out hope that the attacker is Zach and not Nick. I would so be down for that.