Letters to Holly

Thursday, September 1


The diaper rash is fading. The sidekick slept through the night. I'm halfway packed. Our con experience is a little over a day and a 3-hour drive away. You just followed me on Twitter.

The world is spinning my way. 

It's with a sigh of relief that I can say our big weekend starts tomorrow. Your Sister doesn't feel ready to pack and go. But might she ever? I say no. Not until we're on the road. We're meeting up with folks from Mississippi and California at the show. We're 90% confirmed to be in the parade Saturday morning, and I hope to have the few comic pros attending to draw in my Doom cooking sketchbook.

I called My Mom, and her anxiety has given way to optimism. She had no pressing questions. I drew a map to the local park, and I promised to leave a garage door remote for her. I pick up her eclairs tomorrow before she arrives.

Picture of the Day
The building codes are slack in Mister Rogers's neighborhood.

Wednesday, August 31

Hi, I'm A Bastard

The diaper infection has returned, and I blame the long commute. I was home yesterday awaiting the repairman, so the kid got a full day of intensive tush therapy. The automated pharmacy system initially refused to refill the cream prescription, and I protested to a human pharmacist until I got clearance. This happened about a half-hour after I berated the over repair guy into driving to Asheville to get the part he needed; he wanted to wait until Thursday for the part to arrive from Spartanburg and then make an appointment to install it.

No, sir. I drive to Asheville very day. It's doable.  

But it will cost more, he said.

More than buying a new oven?


Make it happen today.

And he came back about five hours later and fixed the oven. Being a jerk sometimes is the best option. I would have tipped him, but apparently his drive was added into the bill. So he and the company were covered. More money for me and for gee-gaws at the convention. Just three days away! Costumes done! Parade authorities contacted!

I baked some of those Sunday biscuits to go with dinner. Our suspicions bore out: The pilot igniter was kaput. I think it faded into death as the oven seems to crank up like a volcano now.

Your Sister was at school until 8 with the semester's open house, convincing parents that it was too early to abandon ship on their kids' GPA.The boy was down before she came home.

My Mom will be driving up Friday later than we first thought, giving us less time to prepare her for the weekend. I'll call her tonight to give her more notes.

Picture of the Day
I envision the sidekick torturing My Mom with shenanigans all weekend. Or maybe I mean "hopefully envision."