Okay, then.

My car is back, and she is bee-yoo-tiful!

So long, big stupid red truck. $80 in gas in four days. Sheesh.

I am plowing through Passive Aggressive Bride's Album like a champ. Three glue sticks already gone... I can not *wait* to finish this project once and for all. I have to do two small parent albums as well, which shouldn't be too bad.

I had a pretty amazing week at work, which has helped me gain a lot of perspective. I spent some time with people who were unbelievably, unbearably sad upon learning of their son/brother/friend/student's death in Iraq. They were incredibly kind, considering they were dealing with the press on the worst day of their lives. An hour later I shot a championship basketball game between two neighboring, rival schools- Lovable Group of Misfits vs. Rich Preppy Kids- and LGM High School won! RAH! It was easily the best day of those kids' year. That's all on the same shift, you know?

One of the things I like best about my work, (and maybe this is arrogant, hope not) is that it comes really easily to me. That said, when I was growing up, a lot of the typical kid things were really difficult for me. I'm notoriously clumsy, so sports weren't really my thing. (You know that credit card commercial where the dad is trying to help his son find a sport and the kid keeps getting plowed? Yeah, like that.) Dance classes weren't my favorite experience either; I still struggle with right and left. I'll never forget the look on Gwen's face, standing at a beat-up splintered xylophone as she played chords, first hitting all the right notes and then purposefully hitting the wrong ones, as she tried to teach me what "right" sounded like. Tone deaf, much?Then there was the Great Table-Hopping Crisis of Girl Scout Camp 1987. I found my niche; don't get wrong.

But I like my job. I like being good at it. I like striving to be better and better, because I get results when I do. I like that I can be myself, bringing extra copies of the tribute article to a grieving family and giving them the phone numbers of people who also lost loved ones in Iraq (strangers who called the paper asking if we could help them reach this particular family), and just being with them for a few minutes, even if they don't want to be photographed that day.

Anyway. Meeting Molly, Gwen and hefk in... less than 8 hours! Yikes! To bed!