Newscoma Has Moved
Friday, December 15, 2006
  Last Night In The Suburbs Of Hooterville It's the last morning out here in Harris. The Georgia Boy Cousins left about an hour ago, heads most likely aching from their last night celebrating the Tennessee branch of their huge, extended family and the loss of their beloved grandmother with large quantities of cheap beer and, I know its hard to believe, BBQ. I had to go to sleep early because it has become my best friend recently, elusive many times and somewhat mysterious. I woke up to the symphony of some of the most intense snoring I've ever experienced with a Spinal Tap decibel level of 11. The annoying music of six sets of clogged sinuses could have brought the dead back to life and I heard one of the Boy Cousins having an intense conversation about his relationship with an evil backpack. Sleep talkers never cease to mesmorize me, especially the ones that hold both sides of a conversation. I sat up at 1 a.m. listening to the reverberating sounds of the night and decided to read some Neil Gaimon and finally went back to sleep about three hours later. That must be really tough on his girlfriends, but I digress. The backpack must have been possessed by the devil itself from the way he was talking. I need to get to work early because there is a thousand things to do and preperations for Christmas have been avoided all week. I'm working on three hard news stories plus I'm joyfully *snark* working on a gift guide which is basically an advertising supplement that we do more than I like. It's hard to get my head into the many different ways to say Christmas in a variety of languages when I'm trying to work on some other things that didn't get done when I was out a full day for the funeral. Pick up, clean up and move on. Sometimes I feel like life's janitor. As Huck says, I'm not very good at juggling wombats and I have found myself becoming one of those no-nonsensed women that blurts and walks on which really isn't me. I took a few minutes after work with graphics design extradonaire Beth Cravens before I headed back to Harris, and I realized that my weariness had turned into an ill-temper which she graciously allowed me to vent about, so I opted to head out early because I despise being pissy. I'm usually a pretty optimistic person. We are having a party tomorrow night for our friends and employees of the Press in conjunction with Homer and Squeegee Monkey. We are looking at the house being filled with a minimum of about 60 people at this point. When we throw a party, we don't do it half-assed, but I'm worried about getting everything done. Homer, in her glory, has everything under control but I still need to do some things on my end. Squirrel Queen has developed a peculiar bone-rattling sigh and her eyes have a distance haze to them that she has recently acquired this past week, but she'll be okay. To lose a father and then a grandmother in a matter of three months is devastating, and she is worried about her mother. I am too. We're fine. We're headed home, Mabel and some normalcy and this is of the good. 
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