I've let out more curses today than the script of Scarface and Glengarry Glenn Ross combined. Barely two inches of snow on the ground and the schools close. Of course, ours is the only school district stupid enough to close down for the day. And, of course, this is one of those rare days my husband is not home. So here we are. Home. It's ok, I tell myself. I have a lot of Command Post work to do today. Well, no. Not if my cable connection doesn't cooperate. Which it hasn't since about 6am. Ten snowflakes and the cable goes crazy. My tv's digital cable is out, too. Just some snow and the occasional scrambled picture, reminding me of how we used to watch porn back in the early days of cable. Watching George Bush give a speech that way just does not give me the same thrill. Sure, the internet connection is working, but it's working as if I were on a 14k dial-up. Frustrating, to say the least. I just can't work like this. DJ has been playing the opening riff to Smoke on the Water over and over, once in a while stopping to play whatever else he picked up from School of Rock. I unplugged his amp after half an hour. It didn't help. I can still hear him. When we move in May, I am soundproofing his bedroom. Natalie has been on the phone all morning, relaying to her friends the "horrible, dreadful nightmare" she had last night, in which John Peter Lewis (aka The Pen Salesman) was voted off American Idol. I was tempted to relate my nightmare, in which severed, bloody heads were being thrown out of an airplane and onto the field at Yankee Stadium during the World Series, at which former mayor David Dinkins was pitching against Daniel Pipes. George Steinbrenner was there, wearing a Speedo, and every time a bloody head landed on the field, he would shout "heads are gonna roll!" and then he would laugh and laugh and laugh until his laughing was the only sound one could hear, at which point Mickey Kaus (who looked sort of like Bruce Willis circa Die Hard) got on the PA system and announced that there would be a karaoke contest after the game at Burger King. And then he pulled out what appeared to be some kind of futuristic machine gun that was soldered onto his arm and shot down the plane with the bloody heads. It was actually a pretty interesting dream. Certainly better than today's waking life, with spotty connectivity, Deep Purple as interpreted by an eleven year old and the screech of a 14 year old girl as she finds out that her mother has seen her Live Journal. It's really too early to drink isn't it?