GB is out of town once again, after a rather lengthy stay at home - I think he was here for ten days last time! This time he's searching bags at the train stations in honor of the GOP Convention. He has strict orders not to do anything that might be construed as supporting Bush, but when he's out there with his buddies, it's tough to tell what's going on.

Jen, one of my favorite people ever, sent me a digital camera (don't let anyone tell you whining like a three year old doesn't work) and it arrived last night. I know because I have the worlds worst mail-person, who apparently takes it as a personal affront to suggest that things might not fit in the tiny cubicle of a mailbox we have (it's sort of like a postal apartment complex)
and remedies any concerns about "fitting" by wadding up the mail and stuffing it into all corners so that when one opens the box, one is greeted by a wall of mail that could deflect bullets, and requires crowbars to remove it from the box.

So after prying it loose from those silly bills (aka "junk mail"), I found the box with the camera in it, and quickly set about trying to figure it out. I loaded the disk, but didn't see anything titled anything reasonable like "Amie this is what you need to open to install the camera". I plugged the camera in and was told that it couldn't find the right driver. I tried GB's computer, but the plugs didn't fit. I called GB, coming home from dinner with Andy, who I assume is a very gruff looking man with a gun, and not Andi, the cheerleader who's had too much to drink, but he couldn't help without seeing the plugs and what messages the computer was giving me.

So of course I got mad at him.

Because clearly he was supposed to have some deep psychic connection that allowed him to not only see what I was seeing, but know instinctively how to fix it, and at the same time be able to create software that could be transferred via telephone lines using voice commands alone, to load the digital camera. And his saying "I'm sorry, but I can't help if I'm not there to see what you're talking about" was completely unreasonable, because of course I know he's not here, that's the whole problem, right?

I don't think that's asking too much, do you?

Oh, fine, so I didn't have a right to be nasty. Fine. See if I ever stand up for you when you do something stupid to your husband.

Okay, Googly Bear?


But I finished off a disposable camera, and planned to drop it off at the one-hour photo place I see signs for on my way into work, then pick up the photos on a quick lunch break and have actual knitting content for you this afternoon. So I did that. Filled out the little envelope, tossed it in the little drop-slot, and then saw a sign that said "we no longer have one-hour photo. All processing will take two days." The fact that this sign was right next to three other signs that all claimed one-hour photo didn't seem ironic to anyone else. So no pictures today.

So I was feeling sort of grumpy, when I checked my daily reads, and tripped across this little tidbit of sheer, unmitigated joy. It's hard to be down when you've got that much pure beauty to look at.
Stephanie?