My foot hurts like a little bitch. Not exactly sure what it is I did to it, but wah. So, I'm limping around like a gimp. Which sucks, because I gots big plans and shit.

Thankfully, most of them involve me sitting in a reclined position, but still.

BREAK

I was there when math died. True story.

I'm purchasing a quantity of items for the grand sum total price of $23.21. I give the mallrat giggly teenage girl $25.00. She mistakenly presses the exact change button.

I could see the panic on her face. The same kind of dumbfounded stupid look the cows used to give me the first time they were expected to enter the milk parlor. Scared, panicked even, completely lost in the idea of how frightening this moment could be.

She called over her manager, another giggly teenage girl. The giggles stopped immediately.

"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!" The rage was bubbling within her. At first I thought, Ah, maybe there is hope for the future after all. But the longer she stood there staring at the register, the less angry she looked, and the more confused. And then it hit me. She wasn't angry because her underling had failed it. She was angry because math had failed her too. It was such a foreign concept she couldn't come up with it.

In the meantime I calculated it out in my head and was getting ready to tell them that I needed $1.79 back. However, I then witnessed a most fascinating phenomenon; the type of opportunity that you simply can't let pass by.

They got out a sheet of paper, and a pen, and started trying to calculate it out by hand. The arguments between them over how to go about this made it apparent this was a relatively new exercise, and one that wasn't practiced often. Why, in a case like this, they wouldn't have an electronic calculator somewhere in the area of the register I'll never understand. But watching these two argue their way through a one step calculation was simply fascinating.

Somewhere around the five minute mark, the line growing exponentially behind me as these two argued their way through it, I finally told them what they owed me. They both looked up at me like I'd grown two heads or something, then the manager said, "yeah, OK. Close enough." Threw the pen down and tried to figure out how to manually count the change.

Math has failed it. To quote a certain someone from a certain movie, "I weep for the future."

BREAK

Many moons ago we bought blue paints for my room.

Last night, I finally began painting the main area of my home office. I painted the closet a long, long time ago. But, now that the main room is underway, I realize something.

THAT BLUE IS TOO FUCKING BRIGHT!

I'm not quite sure how you get really, really dark blue to look bright, but Home Despot managed to do it. It's blue though. And it'll do as a base-coat. Thinking I may whip out the airbrush afterwards and do some funky black metal patterns to darken it up. Mrs. NFB is not amused by this idea.

However, the agreement of many years ago stands. Our individual rooms are our own, we do with them as we please. Of course, if we ever sell/move/rent/whatever, it's up to us individually to clean up whatever mess we create in our rooms. Fair is fair after all.

But who the fuck wouldn't want a blue room with black metal patterns on the walls? Huh? Come on.

And you can be damn sure there will be symbols put up. Oh yes, there will. Only to decide if it's on canvas or directly on the wall. Canvas would be good because then it could go with us wherever we go, but it wouldn't be as obnoxious, and my room will be all about obnoxious because that's what makes me comfortable.

It'll be like a nightclub in the corner of the house. A nightclub for one. Rock.

BREAK

We have had a party planned for Saturday since the dawn of time, or somewhere right around there. So, what happens? The super-competitor couple made up of Mrs. NFB's sister and her well over forty going on seven year old husband decided they need to have a BETTER party the day before with all the same people invited. It would be no big deal, but Mrs. NFB got told she's not allowed to make desserts for our party because too many people have called her the dessert master over the years and it's starting to get to Mrs. NFB's sister that she can't be the dessert master. Oh, but, if we can, bring a few salads for their party on Friday.

Now, this whole thing to me is amusing as hell. To Mrs. NFB? Not so much. Family drama.

Of course, this is the sister that chased Mrs. NFB around the house with a knife long before she was Mrs. NFB. Just a small touch of sibling rivalry going on there from time to time.

Anyway you look at it, this could be very entertaining. So long as no one ends up in the hospital. As Mrs. NFB said, "It's all just going to end up being way too fucking much family in way too fucking short a time."

Well said, sweety. Well said.

Happy Holiday fellow USians.