First, when I went into the bathroom a few minutes ago, I found a pen. Because of what was on it, I know who it belonged to. The pen was screen-printed with many different fonts, and the message read, over and over:

Jesus Is Y2K Ready!

I'm desperately trying to be kind here. I'm failing miserably. Look, I respect everyone's differences, and will fight to the death to ensure that everyone is allowed to worship as he or she chooses—but dammit, I can't help laughing if your slogans are dumb.

(C'mon, folks, it's nearly September 2000 already—give up the Y2K stuff and go crawl back into your caves.)

Oh, man, this just burns me up. I'm researching what all I need to purchase before flying out to D.C. in October—turns out my flight's going to cost about what it did last year. The problem is the rental car. I only need it for two full days—days when Andy's going to be at work and I want to get myself to the nearest Metro station.

You'll notice that the menus on the right-hand side look a little different than they did before. I'm in the middle of revamping domesticat to make it easier to maintain, because easier maintenance means that I'll post more often. Since life's been a bit busy this month, I figure I need to get moving on learning how to make 'cat.net as carefree of a task as possible.

I am nesting, and it feels awfully good.

There is something in the ritual preparation for guests that is not unlike ritual preparation for war. (Except that you tend to like the outcome a lot more.) There's comfort in going over the list of things in your head, walking from room to room and checking things off as done.(Are there fresh sheets on the bed? Is the floor in the guest bedroom picked up, or have I left my books scattered all over that room again? Are there hangers in the closet and ample room on the closet floor for shoes? Did I remember to leave a water glass by the bathroom sink? Some magazines to read on the nightstand? Are there enough fresh towels in the bathroom, and did I remember to check to see if there's a spare roll of toilet paper?)

Brad says that tonight I should talk about chrome bumpers.

Brad, I hate to tell you this—'cause I love you and you're my favorite Canadian and all, but you're totally and utterly full of shit. Why, again, am I letting you stay in my house?

Tonight it's me, the techno, and a bottle of wine.

I am at home, peacefully and quietly nursing a drink like the adult that I'm generally not, desperately wishing this techno were louder and that I were amongst friends at an all-night rave. That's my mood—every once in a while I get the urge to slap on the most anonymous clothes I can, tie on my combat boots, and drag someone out with me to dance mindlessly until the sun rises.