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02.20.2003 - 7:41 p.m.

Thursday

So did I tell you how we're refinancing the house? Even though we bought it, like, five minutes ago? Apparently mortgage rates have dropped to the point where Wells Fargo is going to rush out to our place once a month and cut US a check.

Ha, ha! Not really! That was just for "comedic effect"! Even though it wasn't actually "funny"!

Anyway, it looks like we'll save some cash, and doing the refinancing extends out the fixed part of our loan, and blah-de-blarp. So this morning JB and I had to go sign the eighty jillion pieces of paper that said "Trust Deed" and "Statement of Occupancy" and "Permission To Get Goat-Fucked On National Television" and, you know, all kinds of boring shit I didn't read.

Once again JB proved his responsibility and adulthood by asking pointed questions like "What are the various goat types we can choose from?" while I rested my chin in my hand and chewed on the glittery pen they gave us, vaguely regretting that final glass of port last night.

Whether JB wears the pants in our relationship is something you and I might discuss whilst giggling over cosmopolitans, but there is certainly no doubt JB is He Who Manages Home Finances (unfortunately, JB is also occasionally He Who Gives Dutch Oven). He's definitely the better man for the job - I used to rack up overdraft charges until my bank statements read "TILT", just from forgetting to balance my checkbook.

Also, I'm terrible at math. It is a fact that I refuse to play blackjack because I can't count fast enough.

JB does take care of me in a lot of ways, because I am about as responsible as a 4th grader. Without him, I would be forced to do intimidating adult activities like managing my retirement portfolio, and remembering to go to the dentist, and steering my car into those little guides in the automatic carwash (the horror!).

Does this admission of pathetic girlishness disgust you? Well, I can watch protruding-organ-gore-spurting-everywhere surgery tv shows, and he can't. So there.

In case I haven't thoroughly convinced you that the space between my ears is filled with little more than the occasional tumbleweed merrily bouncing by, I gave myself the stupidest injury *ever* today. I was playing with Dog, which consisted of me rubbing her sides briskly and shouting "Pig sounds! Pig sounds!" as she grunted and snorted, and don't think I don't know that mental image SO turned you on, and somehow I managed to stick my index fingernail on my left hand under the index fingernail on my right hand. I jammed it in there so hard a red crescent of blood oozed out from underneath the nail and it throbbed for hours. I'm doomed to become a Darwin Award someday.

:::

Well, we're hitting the road tomorrow and tooling down that boring-ass Interstate 5 to the Oregon coast for our yearly excursion to the Seafood and Wine festival, where, as you may guess, there will be seafood. AND wine. And this time, a beach cottage and Dog. Usually we go on the Saturday of the festival, thus assuring a heady buzz and/or pounding migraine by 3 PM, but this time we're going to see what the Friday crowd is like. It is likely we will 1) eat our own weight in oysters, 2) eat smoked shark-on-a-stick, 3) drink the equivalent of three full bottles of wine each, 4) eat more oysters and 5) drunkenly play with Dog on the beach. Yay!

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