In the last few weeks, I've been twice stopped up on the Eisenhower by a crash that happened between the time I listened to the traffic report in my bathroom and the time when I got on the Eisenhower (about 12-15 minutes). There is no more annoying thing in the history of listening to traffic radio than this. I listen to traffic radio so that I can avoid the crashes, and it's frankly annoying. And yeah, it did happen this morning, so I got to work about a half hour later than normal, though to be fair, I also decided to just chuck it, and went to the grocery store to get the dry stuffing mix I need to make my casserole tonight. Regardless, I'm glad I stayed an extra two minutes yesterday, because now I can leave 15 minutes early and actually not be stuck in traffic tonight for 80 million hours. Stupid Cubs game tonight.
As for the chicken thing, last week Sam and I saw a chicken on a grassy area along the bike path along the lake. We've been doing the bike thing pretty faithfully when we can squeeze it into our schedule and I'm not sure if this was an evening ride or one of the weekend morning ones, but regardless, the chicken was unmistakably a chicken, wasn't near any human that seemed to own it, and was gleefully pecking around the grass, looking for tasty morsel. What the hell was a lone chicken doing on the lake side of LSD? Did it escape from the LP Zoo's farm? It wasn't exactly close to the farm in terms of position on the shore. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, for a chicken, it was an impossible distance. Did someone bring their chicken for a little lakeshore peck? If so, where was this owner? All in all, pretty ridiculous.
Also, here's something ridiculous: even if I keep plugging away on the cross stitch at the current rate, there's no way it will be finished by, say, March. I'm probably 1/16 of the way done, and I mean, it's a pitiful 1/16th. It's the easiest 1/16th of the entire thing. So if the sixteenths keep getting harder, I'm screwed royally. Maybe this WILL be a next Xmas present for the g-parents. Oy vey. The thought makes me feel like Sisyphus. Only instead of a rock, I'm constantly pushing a needle through a piece of gray aida and never making a stitch. Sigh.
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