I'm at T minus seven.

Well, seven days to Atlanta, anyway; t-11 to Florida, and dammit, I wanted the RV Nation off 'my' beaches so that I could have a few square feet to myself when I finally hop the plane and rent a car and drag myself out there. Yes, I'm just as much of a tourist as the rest of you people, but I'm showing up for peace, quiet, minor sunburns and water, now go the hell away.

Cranky, eh? (Might be anthrax; you never know!)

T minus seven marks a subtle change to my to-do lists. Fewer day-to-day endeavors, and a gradually increasing focus on preparing things to run smoothly while I'm gone. Dishes, laundry. Snack foods stowed, extra cat food and litter stocked—oh wait, we won't run out of toilet paper, will we? Bills paid, notes sent to friends, circumferential plans and plots made.

It is just my way. Plan, plan, double plan and triple check, then get in the car with a free and quiet spirit and just go.

We had a good laugh over my hate mail at Misty and Stephen's July Fourth Soirée with a few of my friends marveling at how I always seem to get the real loonies. After ascertaining that no, I really hadn't ever heard of this person (shameless plug: remember, folks, Cynthia Singler Miura is our sponsor for Anthrax Writing Week, and you can email her at lardgrandmaearthlink [dot] net) we had great fun discussing the potential grammatical pitfalls of considering "Look bitch." a complete sentence.

My friends are spiffy. You know you've got good friends when they offer to take their red pens to your recently-received hate mail and send it back to the sender.

The space shuttle took off just fine, and to my knowledge, the RV Nation is slinking away from Florida's eastern beaches.

Good thing, because I've got reading material, a tube of SPF 8000, this cute little floral sarong, and this I'm-a-southern-good-girl straw hat that makes my accent lengthen into Scarlett-esque proportions every time I put it on.

G'night, y'all.