I plead unease of the intestinal tract and equilibrium. See, I fought mild-to-worrisome nausea levels all day yesterday. (Bless my friends for putting up with my whiney-butt self all day. Bah.)

The kids arrived home from Arizona yesterday evening. As Wendi had a gig, I became the designated (quicker?) picker upper. I was dropped off at the airport, still concentrating on keeping my insides in, and made my way to the ticket counter to get my “parents pass” (for lack of a better phrase).

See, there are only three types of people allowed through the security checkpoint: Employees of the airport or an airline, ticketed passengers, and parents seeing off their children or picking them up. And that’s only one parent, not both, as we learned when we sent the kids off a month ago. So I got my pass and proceeded to the checkpoint.

The contents of my pockets: Loose change, keys, more keys, wallet, and… oops. My Leatherman Micra.

See, because I wasn’t actually flying anywhere, I didn’t give a second thought to the contents of my pockets. (Not that day, anyway. I’d thought about it the day before. Just not enough to actually take the Micra out of my pocket. Duh.) Had I been traveling I’d have been extra-careful about what I tried to get through the checkpoint. Really.

So the very polite, if not terribly friendly, TSA folks confiscated my Micra and provided a mini-lecture. Thanks, guys.

I did, mind you, get it back after the kids had arrived. But there are two amusing parts to this story:

1) Not one hundred feet from where my Micra sat in the TSA “office” drawer I saw an ad for… Leatherman. I couldn’t help but think, “Does this make sense? Advertising for sharp objects on an airport concourse, right near the security checkpoint?”

2) The ever-so-watchful TSA folks who spotted and snagged my Micra totally failed to notice that my “keychain” consists of an old, small pocketknife…

Under no circumstances whatsoever should I be drinking iced tea after 10pm on a work night. Possibly even 9pm.

(Bleargh. Who needs sleep anyway?)

I’m at home tonight, not at work. I’m lounging around, chatting, reading books, and that sort of non-work stuff.

Why? Because the parts for the UPS won’t be available until the end of the week. So we’re going to do the repairs next Tuesday night. Whee!

G’nite, all.

Dear Inner Me,

Stop it. I mean, really. Cut it out.

This whole business of sabotage must cease, immediately. The random dark thoughts, the vapor-locking under pressure… I’ve had enough. And what’s this with the dreams lately? Last night I dreamed I had only a few months to live. Oh, great, like that is going to get me off on the right foot in the morning. Thanks awfully. The last dream I remember involved being utterly alone in the world, sort of a sadly pathetic Omega Man riff or some-such. Sheesh. Can’t I have some good dreams? You know, stuff like cavorting naked women? Something with lightness, humor, or even just a harmless pastoral scene? I’ll take what I can get at this point.

Oh, and you can stop with the random emotional kneecapping at inopportune moments. Like, say, last night. If I wanted a guilt trip I’d phone up my relatives.

And say, have you considered maybe doing something about the general agitation levels around here? The stress is probably killing me, and the sooner I go the sooner you’re gone, too. Maybe I’m a starry-eyed idealist but it seems to me that if we’re both happy we’ll live longer… and the whole secret to life is not dying, right?

I’m hoping we can resolve things peacefully. You don’t want me to come in there, now do you? Hmm?

I thought not.

My son, Alexander, was born on the 15th of August, twelve years ago.

Happy Birthday, Spud. I love you.

I want a new T-shirt. I want it to read, in large text, “YES, I AM A REGISTERED VOTER IN OREGON. NOW LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE.”

You’d think that the headphones would deter them, but no, it only works on about half of them. You know who they are, the ones with the clipboards that want you to sign a petition, probably to let Ralph Nader get on the presidential election ballot in Oregon. (That, right there, is a good enough reason not to want to talk to these people.)

I’m sick and tired of being accosted just because I happen to be downtown, waiting for a bus or MAX, and therefore a captive audience. I’m all for participatory politics, don’t get me wrong, but after the 50th time (this week!) of hearing “Are you a registered voter in Oregon?” I’m starting to get tired of the process. It can be November sort of now-ish, thanks.