It's not really a new post
Mostly, this is just typing exercise. I just need to loosen my brain a little bit. And lucky you; you get to watch.

I'm on vacation this week, for the first time in a long time. It doesn't mean I don't still have a pile of work to do; that pile's still there, and it's still laughing at me every time I look at it. This vacation, for me, basically just means I work when I want to, and I can lean on my, "Well, I'm on vacation," reply if anybody asks anything about anything.

A smart person would have taken the battery out of his laptop and stored it somewhere off-site. But my intellect can certainly be called into question.

In totally unrelated events, my son is playing flag football. He's 5. I've ranted about the folly of organized youth sports before, but hey, when in Suburbia, do as the Suburbanites do. He doesn't get much playing time; he's a lot smaller than the other 5- and 6-year-olds on his team, and it's very possible he's a victim of his genetics in that he's not exactly blessed with natural athletic talent. His only appearance Saturday was on the kickoff team after his team's second touchdown. He did chase the returner with abandon, and almost ran him down, but it didn't matter, because the ball had been blown dead 30 yards back.

There was a little bit of miffedness among the family unit about The Boy's lack of playing time. Dragging him out of bed at 6:45 on a Saturday morning so he could play for one kickoff seems a little silly. But, as that discourse was being discoursed, the usual Perspective Builder came into sight: The team's waterboy, a crew-cut 5-year-old in an electric wheelchair, gamely wheeling himself around and spraying the players with water. Bet he'd be really happy to get in for one kickoff. Bet his parents would be positively giddy.

So, no more whining about The Boy's playing time. We can still whine about the coaches, for whom it seems to mean a lot more to be 2-0 than it does to make sure all the kids are learning how to play football. But I'll keep that waterboy in mind.

Saturday, of course, followed Friday, at which The Wife had to attend a hastily called parental conference for The Old Daughter, who had an incident of speaking out in class. This followed days of warnings about speaking out in class. She is genetically programmed to be a talker, and she's learning how to use that switch that tells her mouth to stay shut when her brain comes up with something it thinks needs to be said. But sometimes that's a tough lesson to learn.

And the Very Cool Mother-in-Law is visiting this weekend. We're about to launch another enhancement to The Freelance Gig in a couple of months. I'll be working my ass off -- while I'm working my ass off -- but the result is going to be very good, I think.

Finally, the 5-day forecast track for Frances is now touching the southern tip of The Edge. It's too early for action, they tell us, but you might want to check your hurricane shutters just to be sure.

There. My typing fingers feel a little looser, and more comfortable now.