I had a whole ‘nother blahg post sitting around almost finished. It was actually about pollyticks and current events and blah-de-blah-de. I was working on it at the end of the day, as usual, hanging out in the Landfill Chitchen waiting for the GG to come home so we could actually go out to eat. I like to cook from scratch and it is rare that I get to the point where I want to eat out, at least on weeknights. Today? I was at the end of my rope. It wasn’t a terrible day at all. Actually it was pretty okay. Except for the part about driving to the UK and back on my lunch hour. Actually, I only drove to the EPA and back but when I yelled over the cube walls that I was driving over to the EPA, one of my neighbors misheard me and thought I had said the UK. Well, not. But. By the time I got done driving over to the EPA and back, I felt like I had driven to the UK and back. I worked at “that darn” EPA for 14 years or whatever so I know *exactly* where it is, oh boy oh boy. But there I was, sitting in my loverly, dog-poopy cube off South State Street thinking, “how the heck do I get to the EPA from *here*?” The short answer was “through downtown A-squared”, which ended up feeling like running a gauntlet.

Anyway, we had tentative plans to go out to eat and, by the time I got home from work, those plans had pretty much solidified, i.e., I couldn’t figger how to scrabble something up outta what food was in the Landfill refrigimatator. The GG *finally* came home and we trucked off over to the neighborhood pub aka Knight’s Steakhouse. Yes. Nice romantic type evening with the GG walking along muttering under his breath something about how many moles per cubic feet. Now, even though I knew he was talking about “mole” as a unit of measurement, all I could think about was our loverly aminal Moley! Who hangs out in the laundry basket with all the dirty socks. And makes off with them if at all possible, so if you are missing any socks and I know you are, check if you have any moles around. And check if you have *our* Moley because sometimes he goes missing himself.

Anyway, there we were, a nice happy couple having a nice evening out, the husband writing equations on a paper napkin and the wife twittering and facebooking about what he was doing. This is the 21st century, don’tcha know. And so my social networking reached a geology grad student (or two or more) and apparently speculation arose about how many moles a pint of beer contained. Or something. I dunno what was going on over in Illinois but I bet there wasn’t a whole lot of writing on paper napkins. Me? I remember learning about moles back in the Pleistocene but I am not a mad scientist like the GG or Valdemort so that kind of stuff usually goes straight over my little pea-brain with a big whooshing noise.

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