1) I have a new client, a very nice young woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to racecar driver Danica Patrick.  I noticed this about her when we first met, and didn’t think anything more of it.  Today I showed her a house over in North Portland, and when we came out of the house, I noticed a horrible noise like an army of giant angry bees, pulsing all over the neighborhood.

“What the hell is that God-awful racket?” I asked, somewhat rhetorically (I am fortunate in that I don’t usually have people as clients who will be offended by my colorful colloquialisms). 

“It’s Portland International Raceway,” she said.

“Are we that close to it?” I queried, amazed.

“Yeah, we are.” We stood listening to the din for another moment, and then she said, “That kind of makes me want to go over there and drive.”

Although I know she can’t possibly really be Danica Patrick, this remark was sufficiently coincidental that it freaked me out slightly. 

I am now wondering whether as a followup to this anecdote, I should tell the story about my parents seeing a racecar driver beheaded at Portland International Raceway, but on second thought, that would be too grotesque, so I won’t. 

2) Thanks to Amuirin, I have become addicted to “The West Wing”, which I am watching on DVD.  I can already tell that I’m going to be morose when I finish the series, so I’m trying to dole them out carefully.  This is difficult to do, though, when I can have as many as I want courtesy of the miracle that is Netflix.  I think we should elect Martin Sheen to be the next president in real life.  I’m not sure he could do a much worse job than the folks we keep sending to the White House.  I mean, it worked for Ronald Reagan.  And in real life, he has strong political views.  So hey.  I’d vote for him.  Actually I would also vote for Al Franken.  I think maybe I’d vote for anyone who wasn’t one of the two major parties, except a Communist or a Nazi or something like that. 

3) My cat Daria P. Olka-Dot Pants has recently resumed her habit of showering with me in the morning; she goes through phases of wanting to do this.  She doesn’t stay long, but she gets plenty wet.  My mother, typically, is worried that somehow this will ruin my house.  I don’t see how it possibly could (“What about seepage?” she said, to which I could not summon an adequate reply) but I realized I don’t really care that much.  Poor cat — here she is, trapped indoors her whole life, completely at my mercy; if she wants a shower, she should have one.  I’m pretty sure my carpet can stand a few damp pawprints on a daily basis.  OK, and a few puddles on the floor.  But still.  It’s just water.

4) This morning, right before my alarm went off, I dreamed that a nuclear missile was headed right for my house.  This wasn’t a bad dream.