We agreed to go test-drive a couple of vehicles today. We know that we're going to buy a new car sometime this year, and my preference is for a Jetta. However, we didn't know how the different engines compared to each other, so we decided to go drive one of each today.

The first car, the four-cylinder, was acceptable, certainly—the engine fired up faster than the four unionized hamsters that run my current car. But it whined a bit when I pushed it to highway speed, and it was working harder than either of us would have liked. We turned around and brought it back.

I thought I had a handle on things; I had an idea of how touchy the brake and accelerator were, and felt fairly confident when I got behind the wheel of the six-cylinder version. Since the car was almost out of gas, the salesguy had to ride along with us to the gas station.

If you're interested in getting an email when new posts get added here, go to the signup page to get yourself on the list.

I might eventually do some mailing-list-only content. Haven't decided. It's always an option. Cheers.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time now," she said. But, it went without saying, she couldn't arrange for this kind of surgery until she had insurance that would cover it. Despite the fact that it was obviously medically necessary.

"I think it's a good idea," I said.

"Yeah. I mean, it'll do a lot for me, both physically and …"

"Self-image?"

"Yeah."

For as long as I've had the privilege to know her, Eleanor's made jokes about her breasts. Taglines like "Eleanor: the breasts of three women!" and jokes about her bras abounded. Deep down, though, I know she was frustrated with the way she looked, and handled it the best way she knew how—through humor.

Today's Friday Five questions are about scars and injuries…

1. Have you ever had braces? Any other teeth trauma?
Heck yeah. My front teeth crossed, and my back teeth were worse, so I got braces in an attempt to give me a bit more normal of a smile (not to mention correcting a problem I had with a slipped disc in my jaw). They took enamel off of my molars, but I do like my smile a lot better now.

2. Ever broken any bones?
My right wrist, twice. The first time by falling while flying a kite on a wet day. The second time was before my senior year of high school—I fell out of a lofted bed. I'll tell that story sometime.

3. Ever had stitches?
Thankfully, no.

4. What are the stories behind some of your [physical] scars?
I have a one-inch scar on my chin from where I fell down in the bathtub when I was four. Oh, and I have tons of chickenpox scars. Boring, eh?

Phone call from my mother: it's confirmed. My father has pancreatic cancer. The biopsy this afternoon will determine how bad it is, and whether or not it has spread.

Plan B begins now.

I've known, and I haven't told you.

Not because I don't want to, but maybe because I haven't known how. Maybe because saying it makes it true, makes it real, turns it from something I've just read and kept to myself into something that is actually happening.

I've known for the past day or so that my father needed to go to the hospital for a biopsy. Where it was to be performed, my mother didn't say. Not knowing where, exactly, the biopsy was needed, bothered me.

I just got another email from my mother. Dad's going to have a PET scan, and then they're going to do biopsies on his lungs, his liver, and his pancreas. Russell—Mom's cousin, and Mom and Dad's GP—has told Mom that he thinks it is some kind of inflammation, although he does not know what.

Cancer is also a possibility.

I hate even saying it. The only thing uglier than the word is the condition itself.

As Mom said, if that's what it is, we'll talk about it when the time comes.