9:00 p.m. Ok, so I'm all turned around and confabulated and flummoxed and phlegmy and rheumy and when I wake up with my lips all chapped from not being able to breathe I don't know what day it is or whether it's predawn or just after five in the evening.

Other than that, I really didn't know what day it was when I posted yesterday through a head full of fluid. In fact, even as I type this entry, Sandy of Dirt Road Ramblin' points out that the date on the entry is December 11th or so. Good thing somebody's awake at the controls -- it sure isn't me. I will fix it now -- and look good tomorrow -- all thanks to Sandy.

Yesterday was, however, the birthday of my stepson and Igor's firstborn, and I am profoundly sorry to say I slept and woke and worked and missed it completely.

And he is such a cute kid, such a handsome grownup, such a nice newlywed. Except for the occasional leap headfirst over the handlebars of his mountain bike, a perfect example of the all-American boy. You can see from the photo, opposite, the great flexibility and motility of his collarbone ... which right this minute is healing, again.

Each of my kids are exceptionally fine examples of perfection, and I say this from a totally non-prejudical vantage point. They just are. I'd love to put up more current photos and prove it, but I respect their privacy -- a little. There's nothing stopping me, really ...

And you know what really sucks? The first time I ever get a mention in Kymm's journal just has to be the day I'm sick and really out of it. It's worse than answering the door to the Publisher's Clearinghous sweepstakes people in your ratty robe with a bunch of Biore things stuck on your face. I wasn't ready! 

To further compound my confusion and mental miasma today, I'm also sort of recovering from the office party to end all office Christmas parties. Suffice it to say that we ended up at the House of Blues until they closed down, and then we wandered into what we thought was the Skybar but really was the St. James' club ... not that it mattered much at that point.

It's really really uphill when you park you car on Sunset. Walking to your car becomes a huge metaphor for life and work in this town. You can even wax poetic out loud and nobody minds.

I particularly want to say how grateful I am that the wine provided at the party was of an impeccable vintage. You have no idea how grateful. Had it been the swill I'm used to, I would just now be waking up.

Suffice it to say that all the apology notes are already in the mail. But I had a ball.