Okay, I fixed the domain name for Heavy Boots once again. I guess there's no way to trick Google Sites into accepting a naked URL. That's okay, because their error page links to the correct address. Plan B is not a bad plan at all.
I pinched a nerve in my neck this weekend, Sunday saw me lain out until we drove to Urgent Care. Now I've got one set of pills I take thrice daily (when I remember to bring them to work) and Vicodin right before bed. Even on meds, it's hard to hunch over my desk at work to correct typographical errors, and writing postcards or doing a crossword is just as painful. In fact, it makes me fear I'm developing a mighty, Burnsian hump. I know that scribes in ancient Egypt and calligraphers in the Middle Ages had stooped posture for just this reason. My mom, ever helpful, suggests it could be spinal meningitis.
Yesterday I bought a new book bag, smaller than my courier bag (but both by Victorinox) so I can't overload it with books, which I suspect contributed to the pinched nerve. It's a marvelous little satchel and it holds a couple Moleskines, my Kindle, an array of pens and ink cartridges, new postcards, received postcards, iPod Nano, bus card, and lots of things. I'm surprised it's not now as heavy as my courier bag was. Maybe the bag itself is substantially lighter.
Last night I had a night to myself, as Rebecca went to her reading group. Whenever she's around I have a hundred little projects to do, little hobbies that take up my time, but as soon as she's gone, I have nothing to do but pass out on the futon. What the hell.
I've received one post card through Postcrossing.com, I'm excited about that. I've sent several more and am just waiting to hear back from people. My pen pals in Italy and Singapore--independent of Postcrossing--sent me some gorgeous cards from their areas. I've renewed my pastime of scanning in the interesting postage stamps and found a large, cheap album at Marshalls to store my international postcards. It's awesome! It feels good to get back into writing correspondence, even if I'm not writing any short stories, like I should be. And speaking of that, I've written Gene Wolfe another letter, a longer one in which I took my time to explain myself and frame better questions, as well as to express my admiration.
And that's about it. Not much changes around here. The cats need more attention than they're getting, and they have no qualms about claiming it.