My Plans for the Week

All is well in Gueraland. As predicted, the money was there this morning, though the bank absconded with $75 in overdraft charges. Armed with my filthy lucre, I hied myself unto the Sprint store, where I paid my phone bill by feeding money into the blinking, greedy mouth of an electromic payment center. It was finicky, this anteater sprung from the loins of Lord Pentium and Lady Bell. It eschewed my money. It called it "invalid bills," a phrase with which I took a great deal of umbrage. I may be an invalid, yes, but my money is just as full of cocaine and PCP residue as anyone else's, thank you very much. Actually, I think there was some age discrimination going on, because the only bills it rejected were those that had obviously been in circulation for a long time. The crisp, new bills disappeared into its voracious gullet without a hitch. The bill was eventually paid, and I wandered over to Borders and Best Buy. Nothing of note, which is a blessing, like as not. Maybe I won't overdraw this month.

Tomorrow is utility bill and grocery day. I have already scheduled the cripple cab. Roomie and I need to stock up on everything-food, laundry detergent, cleaning supplies, and Advil. We're going to try and make nachos sometime this week; we got a recipe from Food Network. We'll see how that goes. Anything short of incinerating the apartment complex will be called a success. If they turn out well, I'm naming myself an honorary Aluminum Chef. Salmon wouldn't go amiss, either.

Thursday is our designated camping trip. Once a month, we book a hotel in town and spend the night reading, playing cards, watching TV, and eating junk food. That way, if the TV blows up during a storm, it's not mine, and so I can watch Grissom or Gary Sinise or Mark Harmon without guilt and the gnawing fear that my indulgence in the blessed pixels during a thunderstorm will trigger a cascading failure of the national power grid and launch a nationwide manhunt for the culprit.

"But...but you don't understand," I'll wail as the grim, burly federal marshals drag me from my hotel room with a jacket over my head and a miniature version of car boots on each wheel. "It was Gil Grissom."

You have to find me first, coppers. With any luck, by Friday morning, I'll be in the local cineplex, watching Kingdom of Heaven and wondering just who thought Orlando Bloom was rugged, manly-man, hero material. Thank God Liam Neeson and Jeremy Irons will be there to lessen the pain and carry the day. Now, if only Liam would get nekkid before he gets inevitably dead.