Greetings, Internet! I'm sitting here drinking wine, listening to my children watch Monkey Business, and enjoying my favorite emotion: feeling smug. Yes, there's nothing like the sense of being right to give me a warm glow all over.
Mind you, I feel that way almost all the time, but it's not every night that my husband flattens himself and approaches me wriggling on the floor, like the guys on Combat! (or Carl Spackler sneaking up on the gopher's hideout in Caddyshack.) The flattened, full-body wriggle was to beg my pardon for basely accusing me, the wife of his bosom, of misplacing the remote control for the garage door opener. When it had been in the car all along.
Now, if there's anything I like better than being right, it's being right when my husband is wrong. It's kind of like the Red Sox. The only thing better than the Red Sox winning is the Red Sox winning and the Yankees getting their asses kicked.
Of course, the Sox and the Yankees are out of the running, so the cry goes up on the internet: "Less talk about the post-season, Poppy, and more talk about the present!" I hear and obey, oh internet: we're back from a Columbus Day weekend in New Hampshire, where for once, I didn't eat any lobster. I did enjoy the lack of sales tax, though, and I bought a new laptop to prove it.
See, I dropped my last laptop and cracked the screen. With every passing week, the crack got worse. Lately about a third of the screen was utterly useless, with big black blotches covering everything I needed to see. I had to blog with my peripheral vision. Hence the typos, spelling errors, and grammatical solecisms.
But now! Now I've got a brand-new laptop with a great big 17-inch screen. It's huge and bright, and I don't have any cracks to work around, so from here on, any typos are strictly my fault. If you see any misspellings, email me the bad news, and then? Because you'll have been right when I was wrong? You can join me in smugness. But hurry up, before I drink up all the wine.