***Friday has reared up and bitten me in the arse, that's for sure. It's been one of those lots-of-balls-in-the-air kind of weeks, and guess what? I'm no juggler. And also? The balls weren't even the kind of balls I like; they were the kind of balls I like to throw at other people while I run away.
[In the back of my head, of course, I can hear Beavis and Butthead voices going heh, heh. she said 'balls.']
Leaving pesky balls behind, let me venture tentatively into the area of politics. My friend Perry has set up an "Obama for President in 2008" social network, so I've been blogging a bit over there. As a Nesting Ground reader, it will come as no surprise to you when I say that when I am forced to focus on only one topic, I become even more of a bumbling, stumbling fool than usual.
Instead of blogging about things that would be, you know, pertinent to the subject of Barack Obama's rise to glory, I drone on about what I feel is his camp's less than stellar choice in campaign music. Next, I will no doubt delve into even more important matters such as his preferred brand of shoes, hair products, and whether or not he uses mechanical pencils. 'Cuz apparently that's what I do. Pffffft.
I must end this riveting post now (hey, at least I'm not discussing the weather) because it's time to take Risa and Vida to softball practice. And softball practice requires...you know it already, don't you?...balls. And balls, naturally, bring us right back—however clumsily—to where we started.
My work here is done.