Loose the Sandbags But the Balloon Wouldn't Go Any Higher

I admit it: the news of the last week has me a little down. South Dakota has apparently decided incest really is a game the whole family can play. Pundits quibble over whether a civil war is-is, in fact, is-ing in Iraq. Last night, a Daily Show rerun articulated my frustration and fatigue with the administration with a pop quiz: (paraphrasing) When Scott Mclellan said, "I'm not going to comment on an ongoing investigation," was he talking about -

And though the answer was "D. the Plame Affair" the list of possible investigations followed the hurricane pattern into greek letters. I laughed nervously and hoped this wouldn't compound my already weird dreams. What, you don't dream about the hilarity of dropping bombs on whole flooded regions of unemployed Kanye Wests who should have evacuated when you told them developers needed that land? Christ on a cracker, the news has been so bad I'm tempted to switch to Telemundo to calm down.

Yesterday, I opened my datebook and realized I had an appointment today I'd made three months ago because making appointments three months in advance leads to a higher degree of "I told you you'd forget." Well, I've beat the curve. I'm going to hop a bus downtown, braving the brisk river winds and floating construction debris, and I'm getting a mammogram. Expect the worst. I do. What do you think happens when a woman named Tata shows up to have boobs mechanically mashed?

By this afternoon, we can both expect I'll be willing to shout down chickenhawks and warmongerers of all stripes. I'll be ready to cut to the chase. If I can face a mammogram, I can face anything. Later: phone calls to senators. No sweat.