"Maybe I can quit drinking one of these days. They all say that, don't they?"

"It takes about three years."

"Three years?" He looked shocked.

"It usually does. It's a different world. You have to get used to a paler set of colors, a quieter lot of sounds. You have to allow for relapses. All the people you used to know well will get to be just a little strange. You won't even like most of them, and they won't like you too well."

- From Raymond Chandler's "The Long Goodbye"

Three years? Well, hell, three weeks down.

Yum.

Ok, since I didn't die, or bend my car, on the way to work, and since there is a fairly good chance that the other two people who are supposed to come in today will make it as well, and since the snow brings lots of skiers and snowboarders into town, and since my kids are all holed up nice and safe, and since the Lincoln County Grill is only a couple of blocks away, easy walking when it's too nasty to drive, and since they have bomb ass huevos rancheros, I will not bitch and moan about the 8" of new snow that I woke up to at 6 am, the hour long ass clenching session that was my drive to work, or the fact that it is still snowing and that I will undoubtedly spend my day off tomorrow re-shoveling the cafe's roof.

Right now I am still basking in the glow that is two over easy eggs perched on corn tortillas and smothered in red chile and cheese slopped up against fried potatoes and beans with bacon and a big ass flour tortilla.
How does one eat this big, gorgeous, sloppy mess? Well, I start by tearing the tortilla into triangles, which I then fill with a little bit of everything else on the plate, fold tight, lean well over the plate, make sure there are plenty of napkins handy, and...go.

Can it be spring now?

Yeah, it's pretty, I know, but I am sick and tired of it. The snow, not the cafe...mostly.

What to say?

Well, I did have about two paragraphs written, but just deleted them, so the title is appropriate.

Just deleted another.

Hmmmmmm, what's new?

Well, I grew a mustache, for one. Not a beard or goatee with mustache, just a plain old fashioned (and out of fashion) stand alone 'stache. It has been called a copstache, a pornstache, and a mo. I call it Linda.

I named it Linda after being told that I just had to name it. I usually name things Carl...I just think it's funny...but the thought of a hairy Carl on my lip kinda didn't do it for me, so Linda it was.

A hairy Linda I can handle, reminds me of the 80s.

Em hates Linda. Last weekend, as I was getting into my car, Em pulled into the lot, rolled her window down, and shouted, "Shave that goddamned thing off!"

That's my precious angel.

I told her later that Linda and I wanted to talk to her about her attitude.

"I hate Linda, and she's not my mom!" was her answer.

So, yeah, that's new.

What else?

Maybe later.

In the words of Granny Weatherwax, "I aten't dead."

Ouch

I lean back, my eyes closed against the light, a warm orange glow on the backs of my eyelids, the cold metal of the Tecate can perspiring in my hand as the sound of gently lapping water just reaches my ears.

Wait, that’s the floor drain backing up and flooding the dish room again. Shit. At least the Tecate is real.

It is day nine of Hell Week and it is starting to show. A couple of mornings ago I sat on the couch drooling and slurring my speech, wondering if I’d had a mild stroke, then Danny kindly pointed out that I still had my toothbrush in my mouth. I’m not sure that’s better.

Saturday morning I sent a text to Brett to ask how the weekend had gone at Café Z. I was sure it was Sunday afternoon.

I hope everyone is having a good 2010 so far, though I've got to say that I feel ripped off. Where is my flying car? My vacation on the moon? And the robot wives? Well, they're here and it turns out that they're just kinda creepy.