butcher

So, I made it over to Ashland City just in time for the McCain/Palin rally.  Unless I was late.  Either way, there were five old white people there.  So much for stirring excitement.

So, two folks this evening asked me about an older man in a light checked jacket out in a hammock in the back yard.

The Butcher’s hammock?  I pointed.

No, not that one, the other one.

Which one?

Wait.  There is no other hammock.

Nope.

Oooo.  Spooky.

1.  I think it smells like a cat pooped in here somewhere.  But damned if I can find it.

2.  Lynnster is totally on my good-guy list for introducing me to anti-virus things that actually work.

–I am tired of being sick.  When I finally unsicken up, I’m laminating myself to prevent the incursion of any other crap.

–Is even floating the idea of having a great big show wedding for your kid so that your boss can score some political points really that cool?  I don’t know.  I don’t like it, though.

So, I think that we have the whole moving thing covered, especially if Kathy T. and the Professor show up on Friday.  The Butcher has actually gotten some folks together, large able-bodied folks who are not having some kind of emotional and physical breakdown.

The Butcher was dogsitting this weekend and so he taught the dog to sit on his shoulder and ride around.  This is so cute I about can’t stand it.

I’m ridiculously interested in the minutiae of butchery, so I was disproportionately thrilled to find costillas on the menu at Las Maracas, a newish Mexican place in Belle Meade Plaza.

Nashville, it’s not that I don’t believe the Butcher’s friends are going to show up on Saturday, it’s just that… well, I don’t believe the Butcher’s friends are going to show up on Saturday.  He says “So what?  I’ll just move everything myself.  I can do it.”