Pat. Down.

Yesterday, you got my angry reaction to Pat Robertson's latest claptrap.

Here's a far more compassionate version- from someone who was far closer to the There than I was.

What Would Pat Robertson Have Done With My Dad?

Thanks, Ken (and mon_de_plume for posting it). And my sister, and everyone else who's had, or will have, such a LIFE in their lives.

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I got All The Things written by yesterday, but I'm having to reschedule the actual signings and filings until tomorrow because of a bunch of clusterfudgy client schedules. Just as well, since our bathroom faucet replacement is taking much longer than expected and I'd hate sticking Eleanor in here by herself during the inevitable Bark Bowl going on.  I've got headphones on and the second half of God Complex to block out the sound of the dogs.  Great lines in this one so far- especially "All I want to do is to go home and be conquered and oppressed, is that too much to ask?"

Poor guy. Didn't know they had a Pat Robertson on HIS planet, too:P

Sink you. Sinkyouvermush.

After 17 years and change of almost continuous dripping in our bathroom, behold:




It wasn't supposed to be that retro; Eleanor had originally picked one out muchly matching the one we finally got into our kitchen back in June (picture of that is in this entry from the time), but the one with the unibrow handle didn't fit the holes left by the ancient one, and so we went with this one, instead. It wound up costing quite a bit more than the kitchen installation did, and for a smaller and less expensive faucet this time, but plumber dude more than earned his cracks stripes today, between digging that old mofo out of the base of the thing, plus replacing the works of one of my last DIY plumbing jobs under the sink.

That steady drip-drip-drip sound you hear? Oh, wait, YOU DON'T. Us, either.