Ever heard the saying, "Just because you can do something, doesn't mean you should"? Today's interaction with a grocery-store cashier brought this axiom to mind. Granted, I had plenty of time to think about it, given that it took her an exceedingly long period of time to ring up my order.

It's that time of year, when friends start magically appearing from far corners of the country, gathering for a weekend in which we really don't have a lot of stuff actually planned.

I picked up Gareth tonight at the airport, fresh in from the other side of the planet. The Atlanta->Huntsville flight was early, as usual, and Gareth actually arrived at the Huntsville airport before I did. He was at the baggage claim counter, calmly speaking with an attendant."Where will you be staying while you're here?" she asked. Gareth turned to me, and I recited my address.

"Lost a bag, eh?"

"Yep."

"How many?"

"Only one I checked. I saw it in Atlanta, though, so I know it at least made it to the States." A bit of a relief, that; always nice to know what continent your luggage is on. "I did pack things like a razor and whatnot in my carryon, so it's not like I'll be desperate in the meantime."

With time comes healing, and with healing, some degree of acceptance. With time, comes the willingness to talk.

To some degree.Today, I'm making available something that has been up on cat.net for quite some time, but that I wasn't ready to share: a cancer diary. Behind the scenes, I kept track of all the entries relating to Dad's diagnosis (and everything that happened afterwards). I knew that eventually, I'd want to compile the entries and make them available in a slightly more accessible format.

But I don't read those entries. Don't really even like to think about them. Even now, when the random-entry generator turns up an entry relating to Dad's illness, I reload the page to get a different random entry.

Am I in denial? No. Denial would be easier.

I still remember the book I was reading at the hospital; I never finished it. I remember the position of the chairs in the room. Leatherette. I wore combat boots for most of the time Dad was in the hospital; if I couldn't actually combat death I could at least look as angry as I felt.

Part of me will always be twenty-five, bracing my current spot in A Confederacy of Dunces with my left thumb while I reached out to Dad with my right hand. Knowing that a touch or a voice would soothe him. Knowing that it didn't matter a damn how uncomfortable I was; I had to do what was necessary.

I hated touching Dad in the hospital. It felt…wrong. At least around me, Dad was not the kind of person to reach out and touch people. Only after his aneurysm surgery did he ever reach out to hug me; he probably had the same unusually-large sense of personal space that I have.

"What sets apart Rice-Boys from normal performance enthusiasts is that they are more concerned with the image of speed than they are about actual performance."—riceboypage.com

Is it just me or do the twentysomething males of the world have far, far too much free time on their hands? Kat and Sean had to explain the concept of "ricing" one's car—in other words, taking a car [generally Japanese, thus the nickname] that isn't really designed for speed….…and making it look like it was made for speed.

Your task from Friday: given the photo of the kitty in the laundry, determine both a) the name of the cat in the laundry and b) whether the laundry was dirty or clean.