... you'd never know I was alive. Yesterday I sat through a weepy WWII Esther Williams/Van Johnson flick on cable with my dad, The Haunted Mansion with Jeff and three hours of Trading Spaces with my mom.
I did, however, get off my flabby white ass long enough to run three miles in Iowa's unusually balmy December weather. I ran through my old paper-route neighborhood and admired all the magnificent houses I was too young to appreciate when I was younger. And I took four laps around the track at my high school, but nobody came out to cheer me on or welcome me home. Sigh.
Today we're enjoying the rule of It Always Happens in Threes: Mom and Dad blew a fuse or something that affected a large portion of the house, the brakes went out in Dad's van, and my sister and her husband woke up to water dripping from their kitchen ceiling.
It looks like my work here is done. They'll be glad to have me gone when I head back to Chicago tomorrow.
