Fuck You, Jeff Skilling. Fuck You, You Piece of Shit.

I had a really nice day today.

I woke up and it was raining on all the lovely bulbs that I planted yesterday (well, all the daffodil and allium bulbs; the squirrels, I'm sure, have already devoured the two dozen tulip bulbs).

The nice man showed up on the dot of 7:30 for my annual furnace inspection and pronounced my furnace nice and healthy. I don't know if I've ever mentioned it, but I love the furnace in this house. I don't know what it is, but it makes the warmest warmth and it warms my little house up in about two minutes. Miss Thing loves it even more than I do, if that's possible. Warmth. It's a blessing.

I got to work and had a lovely e-mail from a former paralegal who's doing really well in the world of politics and is loving his life. I did a spot of work.

I took Son to lunch at Agua Ardiente, and had gazpacho, rack of lamb, and naranja poached in Grand Mariner & vanilla ice cream, with a glass of Sangria. Not the best Spanish restaurant in D.C., but better than Matlin & Carvelle's place that used to occupy this space.

Went back to work, went to the gym, came home to my nice (warm!) little cottage and had homemade vegetable soup and a Stoli martini while reading holiday cards from old friends.

And do you know what made all of it 100% nicer? Knowing that Jeff Skilling reported to jail today.

Every day, for the next however many years, no matter what kind of day I have, I'm going to say to myself, "Hecate, Darling. Jeff Skilling is still in jail. Have another martini." And then, I will. And Jeff Skilling won't, because they don't serve martinis in jail.

Bwhahahahah!