I check Photoshop Disasters almost every day, and laugh and laugh.
I know how hard it is to make things look right on Photoshop (witness the "Glow Tooth Girl" catastrophe, whereby I made Thing 1 look like her teeth were made of plutonium.) But I am not a professional graphic artist, and I have no experience on Photoshop other than what I have learned via trial and error, and most importantly, I'm not getting paid.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
And He's No Better At Chemistry
Toby is an outdoor cat, but we keep him on a leash, for various reasons. One: we have a crazy neighbour that scatters birdseed on her front lawn, and then gets angry at the dozens of cats that come from far and wide to partake of the avian buffet that she has created, two, when Toby was not on a leash, he got lost and went missing for three weeks, and we were pretty sure he had gone to the Big Crazy Lady's Lawn in the Sky and don't want it to happen again, and three, there's a by-law in our town that says you have to.
Toby puts up with being on a leash pretty well, actually. We thought he would rebel and we would have to break his spirit and forever suffer pangs of remorse for having quashed the independant spirit we loved so well, or some such thing. But really, we just put him out on a leash and he's been okay with it.
Although Toby is clever enough in some ways, his grasp of physics is tenuous at best. Actually, it's non-existant. And he seems to have absolutley no capacity whatsoever to catch on to even the most megre of concepts, namely: If you go around something, and you are tethered to something else, you are going to get stuck. This elementary idea eludes Toby utterly, and his little kitty brain seems entirely incapable of learning it, despite many, many harsh lessons. You would think that, after having gone around the basketball net 50 times and getting stuck, you would perhaps reconsider the 51st, but no. Here is Toby on his way....
And here is Toby in the position. Note the body language here, it says, "gaaaaahhh!"
Toby puts up with being on a leash pretty well, actually. We thought he would rebel and we would have to break his spirit and forever suffer pangs of remorse for having quashed the independant spirit we loved so well, or some such thing. But really, we just put him out on a leash and he's been okay with it.
Although Toby is clever enough in some ways, his grasp of physics is tenuous at best. Actually, it's non-existant. And he seems to have absolutley no capacity whatsoever to catch on to even the most megre of concepts, namely: If you go around something, and you are tethered to something else, you are going to get stuck. This elementary idea eludes Toby utterly, and his little kitty brain seems entirely incapable of learning it, despite many, many harsh lessons. You would think that, after having gone around the basketball net 50 times and getting stuck, you would perhaps reconsider the 51st, but no. Here is Toby on his way....
And here is Toby in the position. Note the body language here, it says, "gaaaaahhh!"
Here is Toby wrapped around the plastic chair on the front porch. He is all relaxed and unconcered at the moment, but believe me, this is going to be quite a problem very soon. Eventually he is going to see a bird that needs killing, or another cat that requires a good smack-down, and both are very difficult to do when one is dragging a large, white plastic chair behind oneself. (Usually, every morning when I am having my coffee, I can hear that plastic chair scraping across the front porch, and if I look out the front door at the right moment, I can see it drift on past.) 
Here is Toby waiting patiently to be discovered after having entangled himself in the patio furniture. This is a particularly heart-wrenching picture when it has been raining. Just to tell you, these pictures were all taken in one evening.
Lastly, this is what occasionally greets us when Toby goes all berserk and takes a run up the mountain ash tree in the front yard (Thing 1 calls it his "Jackie Chan mode")
He goes up the tree, can't get down, and then wriggles out of the leash entirely; a dangling leash and a cat on the loose. And I inevitably find him on the Crazy Lady's front lawn.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
But, Pepe Le Pew Is So Cute!
Usually I wear earplugs to go to sleep, but last night I was wishing I had some nose plugs to go with them. I woke up at around 4 a.m. to the pungent and totalitarian and overwhelming odor of skunk.
In case you have never been in close quarters with a skunk, let me assure you that it is, perhaps, the most penetrating, vitriolic, malicious odor known to man. It is notoriously difficult to neutralize, and when it interacts with a wet cat, it has been known to make grown men faint. Skunk odor will linger for ever, so that you will think you can smell it, even days after you can't. Skunk is what evil smells like.
When I worked at a dry cleaners, when I was in high school, we wouldn't even take stuff that had been sprayed by a skunk, because the smell would contaminate everything it touched. I remember a woman who came in with an armload of sleeping bags, and the stink hit us before she'd even made it all the way in the door; they had been camping with their dog, and the dog taunted the skunk and then ran for the tent. We hustled her outside the door and told her to torch the sleeping bags and euthanize the dog. My parents had a good friend who managed to get sprayed by a skunk and had to get in his car to get away. He claimed that car never totally got rid of the skunk smell, and on a humid day, years later, it was still possible to get a good whiff of it now and then.
Skunks themselves aren't terribly mean or aggressive. They actually are rather near-sighted and keep pretty much to themselves, if given the chance. Once, the Mister was out in the breezeway late one summer night reading "Harry Potter", when it came to his attention that a baby skunk had wandered to within a couple of feet of him, and was enjoying the remains of the popcorn Thing 2 had dropped on the ground earlier. Himself decided to just stay where he was and go back to his reading, and the skunk wandered off. Probably never noticed the Mister there at all.
When I smelled the skunk last night, my first thought was "where's Toby?". Toby has been known to tangle with skunks before, and he has never come out the better for it. Experience is no teacher to a belligerent cat, however, and he continues to delude himself that sooner or later he will kick some skunky ass. He's been sprayed once or twice, which did not seem to be a pleasant experience for him, and yet, the Mister saw Toby tearing through the breezeway after a baby skunk just last week. He just cannot seem to get it into his little pea-sized brain that those black-and-white "cats" are not willing to take what he can dish out. The sprayings have been exceedingly unpleasant for us, as Toby wants nothing more than to engulf us with his affections afterwards, and it is precisely the opposite of what we want. The few times Toby has been sprayed by a skunk, it has taken days for him to be fit for human consumption again. Luckily he was in last night.
As I walked to the bus stop this morning, I noticed the smell getting more, um, pronounced, and then realized it was because there was a dead skunk in the middle of the road. Man, I thought live skunks were noxious, but dead ones? are just dire. I'm really glad I didn't live in any of the houses nearby; breakfast would have been out of the question entirely. By the time I came home from work, someone (very gallant) had removed the dead skunk from the middle of the road, but the smell was still pretty robust, and I think dinner would be out of the question, too.
In case you have never been in close quarters with a skunk, let me assure you that it is, perhaps, the most penetrating, vitriolic, malicious odor known to man. It is notoriously difficult to neutralize, and when it interacts with a wet cat, it has been known to make grown men faint. Skunk odor will linger for ever, so that you will think you can smell it, even days after you can't. Skunk is what evil smells like.
When I worked at a dry cleaners, when I was in high school, we wouldn't even take stuff that had been sprayed by a skunk, because the smell would contaminate everything it touched. I remember a woman who came in with an armload of sleeping bags, and the stink hit us before she'd even made it all the way in the door; they had been camping with their dog, and the dog taunted the skunk and then ran for the tent. We hustled her outside the door and told her to torch the sleeping bags and euthanize the dog. My parents had a good friend who managed to get sprayed by a skunk and had to get in his car to get away. He claimed that car never totally got rid of the skunk smell, and on a humid day, years later, it was still possible to get a good whiff of it now and then.
Skunks themselves aren't terribly mean or aggressive. They actually are rather near-sighted and keep pretty much to themselves, if given the chance. Once, the Mister was out in the breezeway late one summer night reading "Harry Potter", when it came to his attention that a baby skunk had wandered to within a couple of feet of him, and was enjoying the remains of the popcorn Thing 2 had dropped on the ground earlier. Himself decided to just stay where he was and go back to his reading, and the skunk wandered off. Probably never noticed the Mister there at all.
When I smelled the skunk last night, my first thought was "where's Toby?". Toby has been known to tangle with skunks before, and he has never come out the better for it. Experience is no teacher to a belligerent cat, however, and he continues to delude himself that sooner or later he will kick some skunky ass. He's been sprayed once or twice, which did not seem to be a pleasant experience for him, and yet, the Mister saw Toby tearing through the breezeway after a baby skunk just last week. He just cannot seem to get it into his little pea-sized brain that those black-and-white "cats" are not willing to take what he can dish out. The sprayings have been exceedingly unpleasant for us, as Toby wants nothing more than to engulf us with his affections afterwards, and it is precisely the opposite of what we want. The few times Toby has been sprayed by a skunk, it has taken days for him to be fit for human consumption again. Luckily he was in last night.
As I walked to the bus stop this morning, I noticed the smell getting more, um, pronounced, and then realized it was because there was a dead skunk in the middle of the road. Man, I thought live skunks were noxious, but dead ones? are just dire. I'm really glad I didn't live in any of the houses nearby; breakfast would have been out of the question entirely. By the time I came home from work, someone (very gallant) had removed the dead skunk from the middle of the road, but the smell was still pretty robust, and I think dinner would be out of the question, too.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Shark Graduation
Cue the "Pomp and Circumstance", Thing 1 is officially a graduate of elementary school. Last night was the big event, and all went well.
Grade 8 graduation has morphed into a fairly big deal around here, considering that, really, all the kids did was show up for 10 years, many against their will. But I suppose the celebration is more a rite of passage, the passing of a milestone, than the acknowledgement of any particular effort. (There were a couple of kids who were there more in spite of their efforts, rather than because of them.)
For the girls, Grade 8 graduation is all about getting dressed up for an adult occasion for the first time in their lives; unless they've been to a family wedding or some such thing, it's probably the first time they've had any excuse to make this kind of fuss. Some of them deal with it better than others, let me tell you; the harsh reality that some people are just not meant to wear high heels was brought to the fore all too quickly.
It was nice to see everyone in age appropriate attire; fresh and pretty and, you know, thirteen. (There was a while in the early 90's, when all the Grade 8 girls wanted to look like Vegas drag-queens. I'm not comfortable putting makeup on by the metric tonne.) Just to tell you, Grade 8 girls are the bane of our existence at the hair salon. Since it is usually their first forray into having their hair done for a special occasion, they are spectacularly clueless about how to go about it. They never know what they want done, questions and suggestions are greeted with a shrug of the shoulders and raised eyebrows, and just when you think you're finishing your best work to date, they burst into tears. It's very tiresome.
Thing 1 and her friends had been planning their outfits for months. (Military invasions have been pulled off with less preparation.) But they did look beautiful, and Thing 1 was especially lovely in a pretty red dress. (Which was a size 3, if you can believe. I think one of my thighs was a size three once, for about twenty minutes.) I asked her some time ago what they boys would be wearing, and she replied "who cares!". (The boys were merely a prop.) One young man came dressed in a kilt, complete with all the trimmings, and he looked fabulous. Full marks to him, not every thirteen year old boy has the confidence to show up in a skirt.
All these kids I've known since kindergarten, and it was a real pleasure to see them all grown up and ready to take on the next phase of their lives. I just hope none of them need their hair done for a couple more years. Congrats, Sharks!
Grade 8 graduation has morphed into a fairly big deal around here, considering that, really, all the kids did was show up for 10 years, many against their will. But I suppose the celebration is more a rite of passage, the passing of a milestone, than the acknowledgement of any particular effort. (There were a couple of kids who were there more in spite of their efforts, rather than because of them.)
For the girls, Grade 8 graduation is all about getting dressed up for an adult occasion for the first time in their lives; unless they've been to a family wedding or some such thing, it's probably the first time they've had any excuse to make this kind of fuss. Some of them deal with it better than others, let me tell you; the harsh reality that some people are just not meant to wear high heels was brought to the fore all too quickly.
It was nice to see everyone in age appropriate attire; fresh and pretty and, you know, thirteen. (There was a while in the early 90's, when all the Grade 8 girls wanted to look like Vegas drag-queens. I'm not comfortable putting makeup on by the metric tonne.) Just to tell you, Grade 8 girls are the bane of our existence at the hair salon. Since it is usually their first forray into having their hair done for a special occasion, they are spectacularly clueless about how to go about it. They never know what they want done, questions and suggestions are greeted with a shrug of the shoulders and raised eyebrows, and just when you think you're finishing your best work to date, they burst into tears. It's very tiresome.
Thing 1 and her friends had been planning their outfits for months. (Military invasions have been pulled off with less preparation.) But they did look beautiful, and Thing 1 was especially lovely in a pretty red dress. (Which was a size 3, if you can believe. I think one of my thighs was a size three once, for about twenty minutes.) I asked her some time ago what they boys would be wearing, and she replied "who cares!". (The boys were merely a prop.) One young man came dressed in a kilt, complete with all the trimmings, and he looked fabulous. Full marks to him, not every thirteen year old boy has the confidence to show up in a skirt.
All these kids I've known since kindergarten, and it was a real pleasure to see them all grown up and ready to take on the next phase of their lives. I just hope none of them need their hair done for a couple more years. Congrats, Sharks!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Messing with the Cat
You can tell that the frenzy of busyness of late has eased off, because I once again have time to mess with the cat. I've been preoccupied with a million things lately, and Toby has gotten off very easy, so now we can return to normal.
I've discovered that I can get Toby to do what we call "The Phantom Scratch" almost on command, and it amuses all of us no end. Usually you can render Toby immobile with delight, simply by getting his ear between your thumb and forefinger, and rubbing firmly betwixt the two. He leans his head back and closes his eyes and swoons. It's like he's just been given a shot of morphine or something.
But recently, we've discovered that if you put your finger and thumb way lower down into his ear, not only is he overwhelmed with bliss, he slowly begins to bring up his back paw towards that ear, and starts batting away at the air, as if to scratch his head, which he is nowhere near. This can go on for ages, me rubbing, him waving his paw around in mid-air, like a crazed, furry orchestra conductor.
He seems oblivious to the hoots and laughter around him, until I stop rubbing, and then he fixes me with a malevolent, slitty-eyed glare, part fury and part self-loathing. I did it time after time yesterday, because I really didn't have anything more meaningful that was pressing, and I was entertained mightily each time.
I think Toby preferred it when I was otherwise occupied, and I didn't have time to devote to shredding his dignity. But I didn't.
I've discovered that I can get Toby to do what we call "The Phantom Scratch" almost on command, and it amuses all of us no end. Usually you can render Toby immobile with delight, simply by getting his ear between your thumb and forefinger, and rubbing firmly betwixt the two. He leans his head back and closes his eyes and swoons. It's like he's just been given a shot of morphine or something.
But recently, we've discovered that if you put your finger and thumb way lower down into his ear, not only is he overwhelmed with bliss, he slowly begins to bring up his back paw towards that ear, and starts batting away at the air, as if to scratch his head, which he is nowhere near. This can go on for ages, me rubbing, him waving his paw around in mid-air, like a crazed, furry orchestra conductor.
He seems oblivious to the hoots and laughter around him, until I stop rubbing, and then he fixes me with a malevolent, slitty-eyed glare, part fury and part self-loathing. I did it time after time yesterday, because I really didn't have anything more meaningful that was pressing, and I was entertained mightily each time.
I think Toby preferred it when I was otherwise occupied, and I didn't have time to devote to shredding his dignity. But I didn't.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Feild Trip Follies, Part Two
Thing 2 and I went on her end-of-the-year class trip today, to Point Pelee National Park, which is the southernmost point of Canada. (Which would make it the Canadian Key West, I suppose.)
A day spent with 42 eleven year-olds is only for the foolish or the brave, I think. (There are not 42 kids in her class, thank God; it was all the Grade 5s from all the classes.) For the most part, they are normal, energetic, enthusiastic kids, entirely without malice or common sense; like a litter of puppies, they are. A few, however, are ripe for a first-rate ass-kicking, and believe me, Mother Theresa herself would deliver the first smack.
The kids couldn't really care less about the actual destination, I've come to realize, it's all about
the bus trip for them. Maybe it's because this bunch don't get bussed to school, but the unbelievable glamour of a coach bus has them giddy with delight. They started taking pictures of each other on the bus before we had even left the school, and I'm pretty sure some of them had filled up their memory cards and depleted their batteries by the time we left the city limits. (And they are the most ridiculous pictures you've ever seen, too. Blurry, nightmarish photos of open mouths and tongues and idiotic faces. You'd think we were transporting a bus of mutant Orcs to Point Pelee, much like this:)
It was a beautiful day, and we had a nice walk down to the actual Point. There were plenty of "oohs" and "aahs" over the butterflies and ladybugs on the way, and we were able to get some nice shots of ourselves with the lake in the background. (I did hear one kid say, with some wonder, "so...this is it?") Here's the group, with Thing 2's dauntless teacher
waving. (You will notice that he is at the extreme end of the point, in an effort to ensure that nobody gets it into their fool head to test the warnings about dangerous currents and sinister shoals. Because one of them would, you know, and the rest of them would charge in like lemmings and drown we would have a major PR incident on our hands. ) Everyone took turns at being the southermost person in Canada for 10 seconds.
After lunch we went to the gift shop, which was the other high point of the day for the kids. What is it about a gift shop? I remember going to Niagara Falls or some such place when I was in grade school, and we were beside ourselves crazy with excitement about the gift shop. It was the only thing we were interested in all day, and I can't for the life of me remember why. Most gift shops are full of the most overpriced tchotchkes, all interchangable except for the name of the place plastered across them.
We also went on the Marsh Board Walk, which is a lovely 45 minute stroll through the acres of marshland, or a 15 minute sprint, if you are with a bunch of eleven year olds. The highlight of that event was the sighting of a water snake and some turtles, and the revelation that boardwalks that float on top of water freak out kids who can't swim. The kids were somewhat disappointed when the few wildlife that we did see scuttled off in abject panic when faced with a phlanx of shreiking school children. I have to admit, I considered the possibility myself a couple of times.
Back on the bus, and a long, noisy ride home, I was longing for some peace and quiet and the beer I had so thoughtfully put in the fridge for myself before I left, and Thing 2 turned to me and said with a sigh, "That was a perfect day. I'm so glad you came." And at that, I was, too.
A day spent with 42 eleven year-olds is only for the foolish or the brave, I think. (There are not 42 kids in her class, thank God; it was all the Grade 5s from all the classes.) For the most part, they are normal, energetic, enthusiastic kids, entirely without malice or common sense; like a litter of puppies, they are. A few, however, are ripe for a first-rate ass-kicking, and believe me, Mother Theresa herself would deliver the first smack.
The kids couldn't really care less about the actual destination, I've come to realize, it's all about
the bus trip for them. Maybe it's because this bunch don't get bussed to school, but the unbelievable glamour of a coach bus has them giddy with delight. They started taking pictures of each other on the bus before we had even left the school, and I'm pretty sure some of them had filled up their memory cards and depleted their batteries by the time we left the city limits. (And they are the most ridiculous pictures you've ever seen, too. Blurry, nightmarish photos of open mouths and tongues and idiotic faces. You'd think we were transporting a bus of mutant Orcs to Point Pelee, much like this:)It was a beautiful day, and we had a nice walk down to the actual Point. There were plenty of "oohs" and "aahs" over the butterflies and ladybugs on the way, and we were able to get some nice shots of ourselves with the lake in the background. (I did hear one kid say, with some wonder, "so...this is it?") Here's the group, with Thing 2's dauntless teacher
waving. (You will notice that he is at the extreme end of the point, in an effort to ensure that nobody gets it into their fool head to test the warnings about dangerous currents and sinister shoals. Because one of them would, you know, and the rest of them would charge in like lemmings and drown we would have a major PR incident on our hands. ) Everyone took turns at being the southermost person in Canada for 10 seconds.
After lunch we went to the gift shop, which was the other high point of the day for the kids. What is it about a gift shop? I remember going to Niagara Falls or some such place when I was in grade school, and we were beside ourselves crazy with excitement about the gift shop. It was the only thing we were interested in all day, and I can't for the life of me remember why. Most gift shops are full of the most overpriced tchotchkes, all interchangable except for the name of the place plastered across them.
We also went on the Marsh Board Walk, which is a lovely 45 minute stroll through the acres of marshland, or a 15 minute sprint, if you are with a bunch of eleven year olds. The highlight of that event was the sighting of a water snake and some turtles, and the revelation that boardwalks that float on top of water freak out kids who can't swim. The kids were somewhat disappointed when the few wildlife that we did see scuttled off in abject panic when faced with a phlanx of shreiking school children. I have to admit, I considered the possibility myself a couple of times.
Back on the bus, and a long, noisy ride home, I was longing for some peace and quiet and the beer I had so thoughtfully put in the fridge for myself before I left, and Thing 2 turned to me and said with a sigh, "That was a perfect day. I'm so glad you came." And at that, I was, too.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Have A Nice Dave.
I am woozy and sluggish and cross-eyed with sleep deprivation, but it was all, entirely, worth it.
Big Liver Girl and I went to Toronto The Good yesterday and enthusiastically enjoyed a dinner out, a few beers, and an evening with Dave Matthews ,our Rock and Roll Boyfriend. We are sated: a grown up 18 hours, off duty from our usual responsibilities.
We skipped out of town at around 2 pm, and made our way down the highway to Toronto, some two hours away. We checked into the hotel and walked to Jaime Kennedy Wine Bar for a fabulous dinner. It was so nice to not only have Big Liver Girl all to myself for a couple of hours over a nice dinner, but made all the more delightful that we had no one to answer to but ourselves. ("Let's have another beer!", "Yes! Let's!")
When we got to the venue for the concert, an outdoor venue right down by Lake Ontario, we couldn't believe our luck when we approached our seats. The usher had our tickets, and just kept going farther, and farther and farther towards the front, until we found that we were about 4o feet from the stage, raised above the floor seats, in the front row with only a railing to impede us. Best seats ever at a concert! Not only could we see the band, they could see us! (We were ridiculously delighted with that.) We enjoyed another beer, while gently critiquing the clothing choices of our fellow concert goers.
Then the band came on and we sang and danced and clapped for two and a half hours, until we were thoroughly Daved out. It was a beautiful evening, we had our beer and Our Boy and each other's company and all was well in our world.
Since there are 500 taxi cabs in Toronto after a concert, but 501 riders, we found ourselves without transportation, but happy to walk the almost hour back to the hotel.
After dropping ourselves into bed, it felt like we got up almost immediately, but did, in fact, get a few precious hours of shut eye. Impressively, we were up at 5:25, showered, dressed, made up and packed ready to go with coffee in hand at 5:45. Our ruthless efficiency was somewhat alarming, actually, I'd have hated to see what we would have been capable of if we'd had to get our various children out the door so smartly. (We vowed to only use our powers for good.)
Two hours back down the highway (with a quick stop for an Egg McMuffin) and I got home this morning in time to see the two Things off to school. I got to work on time, and there was nary a ripple in the equilibrium of my family. I was able to enjoy my Off Duty time thoroughly, and everyone barely noticed I was gone.
I'm paying for it today, but never was a debt so gladly owed. Off Duty time is worth whatever it costs.
Big Liver Girl and I went to Toronto The Good yesterday and enthusiastically enjoyed a dinner out, a few beers, and an evening with Dave Matthews ,our Rock and Roll Boyfriend. We are sated: a grown up 18 hours, off duty from our usual responsibilities.
We skipped out of town at around 2 pm, and made our way down the highway to Toronto, some two hours away. We checked into the hotel and walked to Jaime Kennedy Wine Bar for a fabulous dinner. It was so nice to not only have Big Liver Girl all to myself for a couple of hours over a nice dinner, but made all the more delightful that we had no one to answer to but ourselves. ("Let's have another beer!", "Yes! Let's!")
When we got to the venue for the concert, an outdoor venue right down by Lake Ontario, we couldn't believe our luck when we approached our seats. The usher had our tickets, and just kept going farther, and farther and farther towards the front, until we found that we were about 4o feet from the stage, raised above the floor seats, in the front row with only a railing to impede us. Best seats ever at a concert! Not only could we see the band, they could see us! (We were ridiculously delighted with that.) We enjoyed another beer, while gently critiquing the clothing choices of our fellow concert goers.
Then the band came on and we sang and danced and clapped for two and a half hours, until we were thoroughly Daved out. It was a beautiful evening, we had our beer and Our Boy and each other's company and all was well in our world.
Since there are 500 taxi cabs in Toronto after a concert, but 501 riders, we found ourselves without transportation, but happy to walk the almost hour back to the hotel.
After dropping ourselves into bed, it felt like we got up almost immediately, but did, in fact, get a few precious hours of shut eye. Impressively, we were up at 5:25, showered, dressed, made up and packed ready to go with coffee in hand at 5:45. Our ruthless efficiency was somewhat alarming, actually, I'd have hated to see what we would have been capable of if we'd had to get our various children out the door so smartly. (We vowed to only use our powers for good.)
Two hours back down the highway (with a quick stop for an Egg McMuffin) and I got home this morning in time to see the two Things off to school. I got to work on time, and there was nary a ripple in the equilibrium of my family. I was able to enjoy my Off Duty time thoroughly, and everyone barely noticed I was gone.
I'm paying for it today, but never was a debt so gladly owed. Off Duty time is worth whatever it costs.
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