The Ballad of the Gutted Calendar

I was doing some planning this morning, deciding how much of The Scarlet Letter should be read by when, when I realized that November is so close that if you stand still for a second, you can smell cranberries and sauerkraut. No wonder I haven't seen a turkey for two weeks. Always trust the animal world. They know a thing or two.

I know that this happens every damn year. You're paddling around in a canoe with a pair of shorts on one minute, you look down at the sun shining on your bare, brown toes and--just like that--you're freezing your personal parts off in the middle of the wettest, grayest day the Lord has ever cast down upon you (since last October, anyway). Yet, each time it happens, we are taken completely by surprise. Such forgetful creatures, we humans. At least I am, anyway.

Monkey brought pictures back from Montana. I'll post a few if I have the patience. Sometimes this Blogger thing is about as frustrating as a whistle pig under your house. (It's still there as far as can be discerned.)

This weekend, Monkey and I will be watching Ripken and Ms. London Belle and Grandma Sophie (Uncle Joe's 'rents' dog). A three dog night on Saturday, whether we like it or not. Craziness, people, plumb craziness.

In baseball news, the story of the day is "will they or won't they?" They didn't last night, and the odds are not great that they will tonight. I, and millions others, hope they do. Go, Cards!

I believe that is all.