I think perhaps yesterday just wasn't a day to write. Then again, yesterday was just an odd day in general—eight hours' worth of busywork at my company with no real pressing things to get done. I've been trying to work on a logging script so that I can better analyze the hits I'm getting on domesticat, but the script kept bombing out on me. By the time I fled my cube and drove home, I was annoyed, aggravated, and had a pounding headache.Luckily, the spousal unit was preparing dinner. That gave me a chance to take an aspirin, grab the nearest willing cat (last night's volunteer for Onerous Petting Duty was Tenzing—brutal life, isn't it?) and flop on the couch for a while until I was back to my normal goofy, chipper self. The cat was gratified by the petting (there was much shameless purring and tail-thumping), I was gratified by the dinner and the release from my headache, and thus I got a load of laundry done instead of just sitting on my ass all evening.

Yes. I have now seen the tackiness that is New Orleans. Good grief, what heavy food they've got there. I have to agree with Jen, who commented on the total lack of vegetable matter being served at every meal we had there.

Jackson Square?
at East Bank, New Orleans, Louisiana, United States by domesticat.
(full photoset is on flickr)

SPAAAAAAAZZZZZZZZ! Okay, okay, I do this before every single trip that I take. I know that spazzing and flitting about the night before a trip is not healthy in the least, but that's probably why I do it.

N'awlins, here I come. Be afraid…be very afraid…I'm bringing my camera and we all know what THAT means—incriminating pictures of my traveling mates!

It looks to be a seven-hour drive, which isn't too terrible considering that I'm going to start driving at about six a.m. I figure I'm going to hit Birmingham in the height of rush hour, and that it should be smooth sailing from there on out. As usual I'm overprepared—I have bottled water and munchies to take with me, as well as an umbrella or two since it's supposed to rain this weekend.

I have to confess. I watched The Truth About Cats And Dogs for something like the zillionth time on television last night. For the zillionth time, it put that hangdog "awwwwww!" look on my face, and when it was over, I had this irresistible urge to cuddle my cats.

I don't know what it is about this movie that does it to me every time. Maybe because I project waaaaay too much of myself onto the Janeane Garofalo/Quasimodo character. You know the type all too well—the person whose agility with words is almost enough to make anything—even wild passionate luuuuuuv with sexy brunette British men—possible.

I probably need psychiatric help for this, don't I?