I hate my guts

For they make noises. Not matter WHAT I feed them, they will make noises.

Loud noises.

Weasel-squeezing noises. Noises like the La Brea tar pits might make if the La Brea tar pits were going undercover as a re-breathing device from a 1960's deep-sea diving movie starring Ernest Borgnine as the lovable curmudgeonly captain who has to rescue the widowed young woman's child from a slug-like monster on a snorkling trip.

You KNOW what I'm talking about, don't you?

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It's Friday. It's almost noon. It's sunny out, and warm, and I'm here in the office with a gutful of rumble, wanting to be OUT THERE, leaping, perhaps even trying out a gambol or two, experiencing the day as it's been made, not slogging away through other people's wants and needs, demands and desires.

Because seriously, what's better than a random gambol on a warm summer day, particularly when one's intestines are hell BENT on making one the object of scorn amongst their cube neighbors?

Gah! There it goes again! It's as though I've swallowed the abominable snowman, and he's growling with distinct displeasure all the way along the transverse colon...

This can't keep up. It simply canNOT. No amount of typing or sniffing or other 'cover' noises will sufficiently mask the intestinal utterances that are emanating from the abdominal region. WTH is happening in there? What NOW?

WHERE IS MY EFFING OFFICE DOOR WHEN I NEED IT?

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My kids were hanging out with the Grandma for the past few days. I think they each grew an inch in the interim, though the marks on the kitchen door frame tell a different tale. SOMETHING changed.

I was looking at Thing 1's legs this morning, and they're far more hairy than they were this time a few months ago. Thicker too. He's getting muscles. My baby keeps growing up.

Thing 2 is fast outstripping his brother, and will soon be taller than me.

No fair.

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Y'all have a terrific weekend. It looks like I'll be working, so keep me in mind as you hike/boat/shop/nap/play, won't you? My thanks.