Sunday morning

Yes, that's right. Not Saturday night. Sunday morning.

Not because I didn't try to blog on Saturday night. I wouldn't disappoint my legions of readers without my regularly scheduled Saturday night post. No, not me, no no. So even though we had guests, and it was the latest Shabbos of the year, I faithfully logged into Blogger and wrote a post.

And not just any post. No no. It was the post of kings. (Queens? Do any men actually read this blog?) You would have laughed. You would have cried. You would have gained new insight into the deepest workings of my mind and soul, which I know is just what you wanted. (Isn't it? Isn't it?) It took more than an hour, deep thought, sweat (well, it's hot) and much brow-furrowing. Much brow-furrowing, I tell you.

You would have found out why I like my SIL so much, and why she thinks we don't want her to visit, and why I think my in-laws think I'm a terrorist, and just how many ways there are to be neurotic, all in one family.

All this would have been yours. All this and so, so much more.

If it hadn't been for (*$&#(*$&%*($&%(*@$ SBC DSL, which cut out at just exactly the wrong moment and ate my post.

Feh on you, SBC. Feh on you and your fancy DSL. I'll take dialup. No, feh on dialup too. I'll take smoke signals.

And don't go with any of your logical advice about composing in word and pasting into Blogger. I'm past all of that. I'm quitting this century. I'm going to go hang out with my spinning wheel and a pot of... of gruel. Yes, that's right. Gruel. Me and my gruel, in a cauldron. And my spinning wheel. And some cloth diapers for Barak. No plastic pants either. Nope, not for us. Nosirreebob. Gruel and spinning wheels all the way.

Gonna go weave my husband a loincloth now.