Todd's telecommuting to work from my favorite gray comfy chair in their living room. Which is good because he's connected once again through email and bad because he's perpetually dialed in and it's next to impossible to get a hold of him.

Today he found and forwarded the story he wrote, for Laine if I remember correctly, about the day I blacked out at work. Definitely worthy of a cameo.

And then this appeared:

Then he went on to explain some fancy math that half reminded me of the time we taught ourselves to read binary and half made my head hurt.

I don't know where he gets this stuff.

Who makes your head hurt?

On Saturday morning I called Laine to listen to her ornately describe her list of Friday night party details. The conversation topics. The facial expressions. Guessing the deep dark secrets hidden by each and every guest.

But this morning when she called me about my night out on Saturday, I was a little sad to realize that I can't recount a story over the telephone with nearly as much gusto. I threw together silly tidbits and vague reminiscences, like coloring a picture with a single crayon.

And I could almost hear her disappointment.

And mine as well.