Otherwise, I�m feeling okay. Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France and the miners all made it out. I was beyond worried.

In other worrisome news, I think it�s time for a small break in sending out r�sum�s. The inherent drama and uncertainty of the situation is wiping me out. I also suspect everyone�s tired of hearing about it. I certainly realized I�m tired of talking about it. That�s precisely why I don�t usually tell anyone about my plans for the future until everything�s all set and all decisions have been made. I just figured I owed warnings to people this time, since it�s theoretically a major move with far-reaching effects. So let�s just forget all about it.

A Symbolic Story

Yesterday I went for a walk. As usual, I never saw a single car. Until, of course, I decided to stop at the sweet corn patch a quarter of a mile from the farm. The neighbors� sweet corn, which I was invited to pick according to my pleasure, for the record. At that point, I was a sweaty, wild-haired mess, staggering through the outermost row in search of a couple perfect ears. No big deal. Then the cars started passing by.

Now let me be clear here. I�ve lived in my apartment in the country for three years, but since I work in town and play in town, nobody in the area near my home knows me. So the cars of older folk headed home from church slowed as they passed, visibly confused by my presence in the cornfield. I smiled and waved, trying to impart that I had a legitimate right to be there. But I admit, after snatching a few ears for lunch, I ran the rest of the way home, for fear of more public scrutiny.

End of story.

I do, however, want some of my weekend back. I don�t recall drinking too much Friday night. I kept a nice, slow pace, had dinner, and munched popcorn as the mary janes played their sets. But Saturday was horrid. I couldn�t get out of bed without feeling nauseated. I swear I did nothing wrong or unusual, so I feel cheated.

And did I tell you about the loud waitresses I predicted would be a problem at the club? Well, they were okay. Okay, mind you. But I will never understand why large groups of people will pay a cover to get into a bar where a band is playing. We have lots of lovely bars that don�t charge covers and that offer nice environments for drunken conversation. In the midst of the second set, I�d had it. I informed the owner that I hadn�t come to hear the drunken jerks, but the band. He foolishly suggested that the drunk jerks were friends of the band, that the band had been sitting with them at the break, and that he wouldn�t upset the band. I, having eyes, could see that the band probably as irritated as I was. I pointed this out, as well as the fact that the band had been sitting with us at the break, not the jerks. And so I said if he wouldn�t say something, I would speak to them on behalf of the rest of the patrons. Of course he said he�d take care of it, but didn�t.

Okay, so speaking up had no effect, but it made me feel better. The bar shall have a follow-up e-mail from me, you can be sure.

Why? Because today I�m wearing pants.