20 minutes of driving around in the car, singing along to Patsy Cline and Robbie Fulks on the radio, and I�m marginally better. And there�s precious little that can�t be immediately improved with a good bowl of soup, even if it is back at the anger-inducing surroundings.

Soup, people. Homemade. It�s the new black. Even better when you�ve thrown in some alphabet pasta, and you look down to find it says, �run the hell away.�

In the interests of self-preservation, I�ll have a break and give the obligatory recap. I didn�t go to Chicago last week; I was unexpectedly redirected to Peoria with my mother to attend to the sister having a baby, which she finally delivered 20 hrs after her water broke. (You�re picturing it, aren�t you? Dreadful, isn�t it?)

When my mother rang and announced the aforementioned labor, I naturally assumed the baby would be out by the time we arrived. Or I thought as much once I was awake. I had no idea it would involve rushing to the hospital to find nothing happening, scraping together a scant bit of sleep, feeding and watering their cats, and rushing back to the hospital for an entire day of sitting and waiting. (Have you seen a woman in labor? Oh dear lord. Never, never, never, never.) I had no idea that in the end, I�d want nothing more than real hot tea (not really hot tea), warm food, a bed, and a lobotomy.

I find it impossible to disconnect the event from all of that time with my mother, who�d already stopped in unexpectedly the previous weekend with a big Wal-Mart bag full of guilt. I can�t even bring myself to ring her voicemail today to wish her a happy birthday.

So there it is. Some time was taken for waiting for the baby; all are home and well. Then I returned, and some time was taken with guilt and busywork and naps.

Reb had a wee girl dinner late last week, wherein we discussed a bit of my reticence toward the birth and the family, which helped mucho. And there were other far more interesting items offered for discussion, because booze and girls yield such interesting revelations, not to mention the most amazing eggplant faux parmesan, about which I shall dream, even as I�m eating my beloved soup. Yes, we�re all discontent. It�s an important reminder sometimes, and it�s so much easier to point friends in the right direction than to self-motivate. I think we all came out feeling better. The hurricanes helped.

But now we�re back to Tuesday, anger, frustration and rejection, so Reb and I will have another kick-in-the-seat sort of night, because it�s hella week so far, and it must end now. Or in the least, we must vent now. And talk lots about the Robbie Fulks/Buddy Miller/Heatersons birthday show later in the month, which will simply remind us that Rhett Miller�s now playing that night in Chicago, too. Sigh.

A small pleasure? Penciling in �bumblefuck� on my business cards, which brings a small knifelike delight and mayhap avenges the grave injustice about which fussbudget wrote yesterday. Heh.

Tired and angry. This haircut is not helping matters at all.