We are in a cute little town with palm trees everywhere.

Booze for lunch?

Ugly show update

This story – with photo evidence – will forever bring the cackles! Ha!

Mr. K hasn’t had a sip of booze since 1986. Me on the other hand.

I love this picture of me and WineRag. Who is that slut? Ha ha!

Plus this shark

WineRag. Live footage. I cackled. #SippySip

Glass half full

We don’t drink.

I may be the youngest person in this retirement community. Hot!

At Vons East!

Sippy sip! I don’t double fist. Ever!

At the Thirsty Turtle. As one does. We don’t drink.

Mr. K at the beach.

Wait? Am I outside?

A room with a view

Because I have such little interest, I didn’t realize we are vacationing like a mile from Maralago. Mother said we are at ground zero for the Iranian nukes. She asked me if I had all my affairs in order. Which of course, I do. Bye!

In Florida. I can feel the sun recharging my cold dead batteries. Oh, Mr. K wanted me to be sure to regale y’all with the story of how some random at the airport left us watching their screaming toddler for like a half hour – when I was about to call security – but I’m too busy relaxing.

We don’t drink at 8 am!

New York City!? #SalsaFactory

I spent some time trolling the Hugo awards website and adding a few tasty nibbles to my reading list.

Let me get this straight? The tariff chaos caused the price of everything to double. Now they’ve been deemed illegal. And I’m going to have to pay all those billions in tariffs back again (via my tax money) to the companies who paid them. But I’ll never see a dime of those refunds. And the runaway consumer prices most likely won’t go down. Sounds legit.

We don’t go outside.

We spend so much time living in our heads and ignoring the wonders of the world around us. What a shame! I was thinking yesterday that I have no idea when on my timeline I last saw a train rumbling through my hometown. When I was young, there were trains everywhere. One used to chug right down the street along my grandmother’s house. When we would hear it coming, we’d run out and place coins on the tracks. We’d go fetch them later, crushed into thin discs of unrecognizable metal from the weight of the train’s wheels. It was a long time ago. No one thought that toddlers running along trains was risky. My town was a rustbelt manufacturing hub of everything from clothing to tanks up until the 1980s. The factories, port, and train depots were constantly buzzing with activity. The trains ran right through town, snaked along the river, sometimes ducked into underground tunnels, and then darted over the water on an iron trellis bridge. Like everyone, I took the trains for granted and didn’t pay much attention. They were like background noise. And now they’re gone. The tracks have been torn up. Some have been converted to linear parks. The old track bed where my grandmother’s house used to be is a community garden. The former iron train bridge is now a pedestrian walkway that conveniently leads directly from my home to the library on the other side of the river. There’s also an old train tunnel that leads to a big park. I don’t like to walk through the tunnel as it’s cold, damp, and dark with sometimes sketchy characters hanging out therein. I don’t want to get shanked. I can walk around.