We sat next to each other on Kat and Sean's slipcovered sofa, in the living room that, over the past week, had begun to exhibit definite signs of habitation by its new owners. We were spread somewhere between the fullness of dinner and the cheerful obnoxiousness that was an evening of gaming with the wondergeeks. He flashed a grin at me and said, "You realize that as of next year, we'll have known each other for over half of our lives?"

I tried to count back without using my fingers, failed, and said, "Has it really been that long?"

"It was the summer of 1990 when we met," he confirmed. Yes, indeed—summer of 1990—before our birthdays, so we would have been square in the midst of the gawky year of 13.

Writers shouldn't be allowed to use phrases like "In the meantime, everything changed," regardless of the amount of truth such a statement might contain. It's too easy of a way to skip over the formative events between then and now, sacrificing story for speed.

(This is nothing more than a little RecipeNote to myself, to keep track of a recipe that I liked and plan to make again.)

Joy's spinach dip

1 can of Ro-tel*, undrained
10 ounces frozen chopped spinach, thawed and drained
8 ounces of cream cheese, softened
2 cups shredded Monterey Jack or Monterey Jack cheddar (Joy prefers cheddar)
1/3 cup onion, diced
¼ cup whipping cream

(Part 1 may be found here.) It's taken for granted that nobody living in Huntsville is actually from Huntsville (Kat being our resident exception). There is no single 'Huntsville accent,' just a variously-lilting amalgamation of the various Southern accents of the engineers who have found their way to this town. But the lack of a specific accent does not imply a lack of commonality in the way the locals speak; go far enough away from standard 'Southern' and the questions begin to pop up:

As some random Southerner has undoubtedly said in some overblown novel, "Ah don' thank they's from 'roun heah."

Was today a good day? I'm unsure. I spent far too many hours beating on code, and at the end of the day I had very little actual progress to show for it. Judging by the line numbers, something around an even hundred lines of code today. But they're good, solid lines, and they really and truly work.

The conversation with Heather, shortly after a breakthrough:

Sorry about not providing the next installment of 'Without Prior Notice' tonight. We ended up getting an unexpected invitation to visit a friend's house, and…how to say it?

Readers, you so got ditched. I know, I know, the suspense has been killing you. I'm sorry to suck all the oxygen out of your reading existence today, but I'm horrible and need to be smacked. So why sit here and write out a different post? Well, because I've discovered another sufferer of the Just Don't Get It Syndrome (affectionately abbreviated to JDGI Syndrome).

I sometimes wonder if we realize how lonely most of us are, or if after only a couple of generations of suburbanization, we have begun to consider the isolation of our homes and subdivisions as integral parts of adult existence.

In our cul-de-sac, there are six houses. If you drove down the street, we would be the second house on the left. Unremarkable, except that of all six houses, ours is the most likely to have a number of cars parked in front of it. From the point of view of our front door, there are five houses: our neighbors to the left and right, and then the three houses directly across the street.