Especially OSBFs.

When Bob and Lil finally found me at the airport, a cluster formed in front of me at the airport passenger pickup curb. Directly in front of me was a parked car, with no passengers loading. Next to that car was another car that was loading passengers. Now, this car was in the "No stopping. No loading" lane, where you really weren't supposed to stop or load passengers. Not that any of the five cars loading passengers in that lane really cared.

Now, behind this loading car was Bob in his rental van. He had just spotted me. He stopped his van rather than rear-end the stopped car in front of him and kill the people trying to load their luggage into the trunk of said stopped car. Clearly Bob is not from Boston.

The car next to him, behind the car directly in front of the non-loading car parked in front of me next to the car, however, clearly had a Boston driver behind the wheel. Not only a Boston driver, but an old, senile fuck that shouldn't be driving at all.

As Bob stopped his car to avoid the parked car in front of him, OSBF (short for old, senile Boston fuck) laid on the horn. He was done loading is OSF friends and was readly to leave the curb, and everyone else better move out of the way. He honked and honked and honked and gestured. He gestured and honked and started cursing at my father-in-law.

I'm clearly not from Boston. This pissed me off.

I went up to the car and slammed my hand down on the hood. "Stop honking!" I yelled. I continued to hit the hood of the car. "He can't move, or are you too blind to see that?"

The driver's reaction?

He pulled forward to hit me. Then started gesturing at me. The other OSBFs in the car continued to gesture at me when the car pulled away.

Lil in the meantime has walked away. Oh, my! My daughter-in-law is causing a scene. Well, it's not like I'm going to see any of these people again.

At least I didn't gesture the middle finger at the guy. I wish I had kicked his car, though. Or managed to get his license plate number.

Bob later commented to me that Boston is rated the worst city in the United States for driver courtesies. Way to go, Boston! You completely suck, and you're proud of it. Be sure to pat all your OSBFs on the back when you see them. They like hitting Hoosiers with their cars, I hear.

What a difference five months makes.

Which isn't to say that boston is exactly ooozing with the best weather ever: quite the contrary - it's raining and I can still see my breathe. But at least my nipples didn't freeze and fall off the moment I stepped out of the baggage claim area, like they did last January. Crappy weather, nonetheless.

This is the weekend of Andy's insanity, also known as the man is crazy enough to have four dogs in his house and think this is a good idea. We already had a crush on him. It may have just turned into love.

I hope he takes pictures.

Kris and I are here in Boston for his cousin's wedding. Mike P was Kris' best man at our wedding three years ago to the week. It'll be fun seeing Kris in a tux again, as part of the bridal (groomal? wedding?) party. He's so dashing when he's dressed like Bond James Bond.

My trip here is short. Since I'm not in the bridal-groomal-wedding party, I didn't have to be here in Boston early, so I didn't take the insane red-eye that Kris took. I hate red-eyes. Unlike Kris, I am unable to sleep well on planes, and red-eyes are merely on way tickets to migrainestonfieldville.

Though flying without Kris sucks, too. I figure if I'm going to die in a plane crash, I want Kris' hand in mine, and his shouting, "Well, it's been a wild ride, babe! And a good life! I love you!"

Not that I'd be shouting anything but "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Well, maybe I'd be quoting one of my favorite X-Factor quotes: "What a stupid way to die."

So, yeah. Bob and Lil should be here soon to pick me up. Boston, here I am again.

I'm leaving for boston in 45 minutes. Heather will be staying at our house for the weekend, up from Santa Barbara (she loves us, just can't stay away), possibly watching the dogs, maybe not. Andy said he may take them to his house and keep them, so heather may be off the hook. Maybe I should have asked he to water the gardens... eh.

My flight is at 7:00 am. What in heaven's name possessed me in my moment of ticket buying, I'll probably never know, but flight earlier than 10:00 am just do not work well for me.

Especially from SFO.

I figured for a 7:00 am flight, I'd want to be at the airport at 6:00 am, meaning I'd have to leave long term parking at 5:30 am, meaning I'd have to arrive at long term parking at 5:20 am, meaning I'd have to leave the house before 4:45 am, meaning I'd have to be awake by 4:30 am. Assuming I showered and packed and planned well the night before.

Planning well always means staying up until 1:30 am. I fell asleep around 1:30 am, and woke up at 4:30 am, actually made it out of bed at 4:35 am and was out of the house by 4:46 am. And there's where my planning fell apart.

My drive took about thirty minutes. Long term parking was easy to find and well signed, complete with a guy in a golf cart telling me where I could find a parking space on the second level. The shuttle was waiting at the bottom of the parking structure, so from parking to terminal was less than fifteen minutes. Checking in my bag and security took less than half an hour.

So, rather than arriving at the gate at 6:30 to walk straight onto the plane, sit down and pass out, I'm here in the terminal waiting, and hour and fifteen minutes early. Kris would be so proud of my early arrival time.

Me? I'm just tired.

My ratio of good pictures to bad pictures is about one to six. I need to have seven photos taken for one good one of me, and that's when I'm actually trying and smiling and stuff.

Mike didn't take seven photos of me. He took one. And I look retarded.

It's so bad, I, of course, had to share.

Well, it's all official and all. I have graduated and am now a Master Gardener.

I now receive a HUGE discount on gardening and farm care books. Guess where my paychecks are going now?

Oh, hi, Kris. They're going to the house. No, really. The house.