Nappy You Hear

Folks are blogging resolutions. Okay, here's the only one of mine worth blogging: I should not and therefore will not do blog stuff from work anymore. 'Specially with a new job, a new group, a new boss and all. Kind of unpro. (Starts tomorrow.)

With the other things I want to ramp up on, that will also mean not doing any more blog stuff from home than already, maybe less. Or, it could just mean not thinking about it and just getting my fix by writing whatever. Oh, okay, I can do that. Prolly that will help with the other things anyway.

So the nappies we heard were on the bottoms of young children at the NYE party down the street. Younger families. They understood when I said how weird it was for both my kids to be off somewhere else, each with a car. They understood, while managing their young children's immediate needs. I think we shared some mutual envy. Lots of food, beer, champagne, karaoke, fireworks left over from July, etc.

I found out I'm two degrees from John Steinbeck. He used to come over to Berkeley and crash Grandma's brothers' parties. Don't know if he hit on her or not. He was a Stanford man and a drunk so there's quite a bit yet to learn about why they let him in. But, there he was. Timeframe: Early 20s. Grandma was at Cal during the fire.

I'm three degrees from Barney Oldfield, while on the subject. Mom's dad's dad was a mechanic and served as such one day while the famous race car driver was making a racing tour of the West Coast.

Six degrees from Abe Lincoln -- explained that in my other blog, the one I foolishly terminated and let become a diggscript zombie. Should I bother with a recap? Nah.

'Kay, I feel better now. Back ... to life! L'chaim!