shaver

Many thanks to Beltzner and Asa and Deanna and others who sent their support and helpful scar-prevention suggestions. I’m bewildered, pleasantly, by the number of people who care, even without having to wake up next to my scabby mess every morning. On their collective advice, and based on clear recollections of what I did as a child every time I had inside parts that tried to get outside, I’d been keeping out of the sun and slathering on the Polysporin. (Some of this advice comes from painful experience: massive surgery incisions and the like. I’m touched, and feel perhaps a little bit wasteful, as though I were having Richard Holbrooke explain the I-cut-you-choose rule to me.) This afternoon, though, there was a wee little problem with one of the servers we host at Velocet — to be specific, rsync developed an utterly insatiable appetite for memory, and munched its way through everything else on our poor little box — so I headed in to supervise a reboot. All went well, and Emily — a frequent and always-welcome visitor who was up to her usual dropping-by tricks — had fetched a fresh George Showman from the nearby bus terminal, so I threw caution to the wind and we walked back to the house.

I had thought about doing some grocery shopping and cooking dinner, because we were expecting a fair number of guests for Game 7, but instead I wimped out and we ordered merely-OK Indian from Restaurants on the Go. And then we watched Ottawa lose a heartbreaker of a game, alas. I think it was worse than if they’d lost in overtime; I could barely stand to watch them play out the last 3 minutes of the game, knowing that they really weren’t going to make it — when New Jersey feels it’s time to field 5 defensemen, there isn’t a whole lot that could be done. I think they performed admirably through the playoffs, and that they came back from a 3-1 series deficit shows that they are really not the choke-prone team of olde.