Yesterday: Up early-ish to clean. I really like starting the week with everything in its place. I find that it makes a huge difference in my outlook on the week. DS to school. Me to work. Good news, I guess. The kiddo I was told was fired on Friday, wasn't. He's at work, alive and I would say well, except that his demeanor is stormy at best. I don't ask, but eventually, he tells me. He is on a 90-day performance improvement plan. At the end of 90 days, no improvement, no job. On Friday, he was given a choice: Accept the PIP or go home and stay. I have to say I'm glad he accepted. He has a toddler and a young wife with gestational diabetes. He needs a job. Besides, being a loveable screw-up is no way to get ahead in life. It's time for him to act like an adult. *shrug* Nothing much else happens. I have to make a quick trip to UPS, to pick up a package. Twenty minutes there. Quick pick-up. Twenty minutes back. Right? Uhh. Not so much. The roads all around the airport, where the UPS hub is located, are under construction. Stop and go traffic, detours, road blockages and worse, no street signs. TDNWMH. Plus I've forgotten my cell phone and I had the poor judgment to pick today as the day to start staying properly hydrated. So I spend an hour driving in circles with no way to call UPS, no freaking idea of where I am, and trying to ignore the increasing pressure in my bladder. Everybody's idea of fun. Not. I finally meet an old Texan who's lived in this town all his life. He draws me a map and I drive right to where I'm supposed to be, which just happens to be within spitting distance of a spot that I've passed a minimum of three times. Yay. The upside is that Grapevine, the town I've been driving around in circles, is a beautiful, quaint little old town that I never would have seen, had it not been for my UPS misadventures. Really beautiful. I'll have to visit again sometime soon. Oh well. All's well that ends well. Home. Watch DS do art homework. I find this fascinating. He has an art teacher who actually teaches art. Nothing even remotely like when I was in high school, where the art teachers basically said, "Here's some paper. Do art," and, if you were naturally talented you swam. Otherwise, you sank like a lead brick. This teacher is teaching. It's a beautiful thing to watch a boy who characterized himself as, "not an art kinda guy," creating beautiful, detailed works of art. Nice. Treadmill. Yay. Practice spins. Yay. Why does the saying, "The old gray mare ain't what she used to be," come to mind? Dinner. Watch political pundits for a while. Watch season finale of Major Crimes. Get into discussion with DS about the fact that, in my world, TV seasons should last more than eight to ten weeks and that, back in the early days of TV, the season might be 48 or 50 weeks (Think the Jackie Gleason Show. Live TV virtually every week of the year, for years.) Admittedly, that was before I was born, but my point still stands. 8 or 10 weeks and then hiatus? That's for wimps. Just sayin. DS gets that zoned-out, "OMG you're so old" look on his face and I decide to let it rest. Whatever. *shrug* Chill. Read. Zzz.