Hosta La Vista, Baby.

Winter is upon Cow-Town. It's cold outside, and you can see your breath in
the cool morning air. I'm toying with actually starting to wear a coat, as
the 40* mornings are nearly too much for my system to bear. The hostas in
the courtyard here at TheFirm are yellowed and sickly-looking. Their
pallid squalor means only one thing ... lawn guys are coming this week.
And we all know how much Martini loves her some lawn guys.

Further, I spent last evening in the company of D. A wonderful evening of
just "vegging out" in front of the fireplace (and the television) was had
by all. I'm still not back to my 100% "rock star" self yet, but the night
was wonderful in spite of my residual low-grade fever and slightly stuffy
nose. He was forewarned that he would get no makeup and the trademark
Yankees cap. And he didn't care. As an added bonus, he also was treated
to the rarely-worn-in-public "Delta Gamma Cream Rose Formal 1996"
sweatshirt. And I didn't care.

There's an odd comfort with D and I, a strange calm that is inexplicable.
The good kind of inexplicable, though. The kind that makes you happy just
to be there, in that specific moment, regardless of the circumstances.
The kind that grounds you. Even if it's with a snotty nose, some
sub-standard chain restaraunt pizza, and a nearly ten-year-old sweatshirt.

In other news, I'm annoyed that SBC now is "sponsoring" the OSU / Michigan
game. Is EVERYTHING in the United States for sale? Is nothing sacred
anymore?