Whew.

Let's put the previous year in perspective: In the past 365-odd days, and some have indeed been very odd, both Sara and I have had eight different jobs, lived in three locations, and are now navigating our admittedly thrilling, though nerve-wracking waters of a first pregnancy. The baby is due around mid-December, and should provide quite the stocking stuffer. So while I haven't had much time to write, my sincerest hope is that my communications will again be more frequent, my heart rate and breathing will slow, and my beloved Minnesota Twins will start winning (they've already been beaten to the cellar by the Royals.) Hope, always hope. Our new home is lovely, for the chief reason that it's a home. Not an apartment, not a condo, not a yert, but an actual house, with a yard. It has some really interesting cosmetic touches, like a pedestal sink, and hardwood floors so shiny I can see my handsome self in them. Plus, we're renting it, so we're not responsible for the maintenance, unless I finally decide to install that do-it-yourself chandelier I've been considering. It's the first time I've been able to write my address without adding 'apt,' or '#', and it looks so short on envelopes. There's something boastful about having a place that's entirely my own, and not having to worry about playing my Lady Gaga records too loudy, for fear that an interested neighbor will knock on the door and demand entry into my totally awesome apartment dance-party.