Lastest Dispatch from the Suburbs

Dean Martin plays on the $15 retro style record player we picked up at a neighborhood garage sale just 20 yards from our house. We've had this treasure for nearly a month, but just discovered his music in the bonus stack of vinyl that accompanied the deal. Watching the world go by, under a sunny sky, Dean croons.

Kiwi snoozes atop her window perch, one furry leg hanging drunkenly over the side. She opens her eyes and groans at the sound of the music. I sit at my laptop, aggravated with the right side of my brain, currently on a 3-month journey around the world. I need to cultivate a set of lectures for my new fall course, but am mentally paddling down the Irawaddy River with Casey in matching armchairs. This weekend's camping odyssey across the Continental Divide should provide a dose of much needed adventure. Did I mention that the little black dog has never slept under the stars?

We also need to get out of Dodge. On our morning walk we pass a rather menacing sign that never fails to invoke in me an involuntary eye roll. We'd never planned to dump our Christmas trees streetside until now. This, my friends, is the suburbs.