��� 2004-03-03, 11:13 p.m.
There's No Place Like Home
I am back, finally. No more planes, no more hotel rooms. The Chicago trip was blissfully uneventful, although the fact that the training instructor was completely unprepared for her role as impromptu teacher was discouraging. I didn't get as much out of the class as I had hoped. Of course, the circumstances surrounding WHY she was teaching unprepared are even worse. The facilitator we were supposed to have was not there because his son had just committed suicide. I can't even imagine how that feels.
I am pleased to report that my hotel room this time around was clean. No random hair, no stained towels. I was not afraid to walk barefoot on the floor. Yey! I ate dinner at a little Italian place across the street. The grilled veggie pizza was quite good but I could have learned to speak chinese in the length of time it took to get my bill. I should have brought my listen n' learn audio tapes.
I read my first Janet Evanovich book on the way there. I'm hooked, and half way through the second. I am adding her to my favorite authors list. Any character that can nail the bad guy in the heart with five shots within an inch of each other is ok in my book. :)
Today is my best friend's birthday. I managed to call her during a break at the class and wish her well. It just doesn't seem like enough. I mean, I sent a card and a "gift." (AKA, a check.) I am such a shit sometimes. I want to do special things for people and it never seems to work out right. Crap hell. Maybe now that I'm keeping my feet on the ground for a while I can keep up.
Speaking of my feet, I am putting off testing for brown belt a little bit. I had planned on doing my preliminary evaluation tomorrow night but my chi is screwed. I'm all bass ackward and can hardly tell a twist hit from an upper cut at the moment. Maybe I can find someone to eval with during Friday practice. Hell, I may make it to the special class Saturday anyway, but if not, that's ok. I can miss a class and still get credit. (It's a required class.)
I have recently made a discovery. Midori is not a cat. She is a P-I-G pig. I feed her, and the next moment I set foot near the kitchen she's begging again. She was underweight when we got her. Not anymore! She can eat like a holstein and craps about as much, too. Tuesday morning as I'm finalizing my packing and such for Chicago, she decided to lay a package of nuclear waste in the litter box. I stepped out of the shower and nearly passed out. The toxic downwind wafting into the bathroom was enough to condemn the building. At first I thought it was a dead body. Certainly kitty had escaped during the night and dragged in the rotting carcass of a giraffe. Nope. Kitten turd the size of Vermont and smelled like Jersey on a level orange pollution alert day. I noticed today that the tree outside our apartment had withered. No more beef and savory juices feast for her. Christ, any more and the entire apartment complex would have to be evacuated. Ahh, there's no place like home. I'm glad to be back!
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