Beautiful Santa

I just dialed in and did work for about an hour. Mmm, fun. (Incidentally, I have a cable modem, so I never actually "dial in." That's just how everyone refers to it.) But at least working from home, I can sit here in my bare feet and a t-shirt with flour on it, listen to Navy Blues at a loud volume and eat a popsicle. (I'm also wearing pants, there's just nothing notable about them.) It's harder to do that in the office. I mean, it's easy to wear pants. Harder to do the other stuff.

This weekend my dad suggested for the second time that I should buy a house in Kenosha, rent it out, and have him take care of it. I don't know about that. Just because my dad suggested it, I don't want to have the juvenile knee-jerk reaction I would have had as a teenager, and not do it out of principle. He's right; I'm sure it would be a good investment. However. One of the cardinal rules of my adult life has been to ... how do I put this ... steer clear of my father in any capacity other than father/daughter. To never be indebted to or dependent on him (or my mom, I guess) in any way that could be deemed even slightly ongoing. I don't know that I'm prepared to change that policy.

In other news, the house smells like bacon. God, I want some bacon.

By the way, the title of this post is how I misread the title of the Ryan Adams song "Beautiful Sorta" when I looked over the Cold Roses tracklisting just now.