Weatherby isn't much more than a Rest Area on I-84 and a siding on the UP mainline to Portland/Seattle (a mixed freight is chugging up the hill right now).

So, why am I writing this entry?

I'm supposed to leave in 15 minutes. (It's now 15 minutes ago; been writing for a bit.)

I'm goin to be home tonight. Yipee!

Bonita will pee with excitement.

The wife will get a hug and a peck on the lips. She might complain about my lack of romantic involvement. I love her, but not THAT way anymore. Maybe, I never loved her THAT way at all, but that's water under the bridge and I've moved on. She's still looking upstream, for what I don't care.

All I have going on right now is Chapter 9. Chapter 7 was set off to my wonderful, dear, editor moments ago with instructions not to touch it until next week. She should enjoy her weekend, too.

Chapter 9 hasn't been started, on "paper," that is. I know what I want to say, it's just putting it down. With a multitude of characters and situations you just never know who'll come up. I'll probably work on it this weekend while the wife is watching the idiot box. I might watch House Monday night.

Remember Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry doing the Wodehouse "Jeeves and Wooster" thingy on PBS (BBC if you're from the back side of the ocean)? Before I went to back to work, I saw the documentary "Stephen Fry: HIV and Me." It was quite good. I don't know where I'm going with this other than I'll probably watch House, except Monday is the wife's birthday and we'll be out, so I might miss it. Damn!

Well, I gotta go. It's 80 in the truck, 58 outside, and the air conditioning won't come on until it's at least 70 outside. You do the math.