It always feels weird to be making out my property tax check to "Donald R White, Tax Collector, Alameda County." I don't know this guy, and yet I'm sending him multi-thousand-dollar checks? Is he even real? Why stops ole Don from taking those checks and buying an island in the Caribbean? Does he get hate mail? I feel like he should at least come over here and clean my bathroom if I'm going to send him a big check every six months.
The new Treo is really quite nice, although as someone pointed out the battery life isn't nearly as good as the 650. That's really not much of an issue for me, though-- I don't mind charging it every other day rather than every four days. And gofast data is tasty. The only real downside is that it's nearly identical to the 650, and therefore it doesn't really feel new and shiny and amazing. "A new toy! Oh, it's exactly like the old toy. Nevermind with the excitement then." (And sorry JC, but the 650 is already spoken for.)
Yesterday morning I was in a really grumpy mood, and I didn't want to be since I had a hot date later in the day. "Hey, I know what to do!" I pulled up MusicMatch, put on the high-energy playlist, then hopped on the exercise bike and did half an hour at two levels of difficulty higher than my normal workout. OK, technically I backed down a level when my heart rate hit the top of the target zone and I still had a (harder) hill to go, but I got through 2/3 of it at the just-kill-me-now level. It worked... I was in a much better mood when I was done, although my legs don't like me today.
Nice people still exist in the world. This evening I was in Home Despot, grabbing a couple sheets of 3/4" plywood. I had the first one and was putting it onto the cart when a couple walked by. Without saying a word, the guy grabbed one end of the plywood to help, and his female companion steadied the cart. He then helped me get the second one onto the cart. We exchanged pleasantries, and they wandered off. Little things like that restore my faith in humanity.
What happens when a smart-assed sadist and a smart-assed masochist get going. Or, how I spent Sunday evening.
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