This photo was taken in a parking garage elevator last August, at O'Hare airport, before I put Brian on the plane back to Iraq. We had time to kill when we got to the airport, so we meandered over to the Gaslight Club at the O'Hare Hilton, to get a drink.
We were stopped at the door though, and the maitre' d pointing out that there was a dress code: No sleeves, no service. I tried to reason with him: "My son is going to Iraq; you won't let us in for a cup of coffee?" His terse response: HE can come in; YOU may not.
Hmph. God forbid someone see my arms. This is what the waitresses in the Gaslight wear, by the way:
If Brian had known that, he might have just left me and Clint on a bench and gone in for that drink on his own, eh?
Look what I found, at the same party as the quarter-butt game. It was (they were?) just sitting there on top of the refrigerator. Like I'm going to pass up THAT photo op; would YOU?
This is my office. Brian made that colorful little painting on my bulletin board, when he was 8 years old or so. Isn't he just precious?
Oh, that's me, and Clint's friend, Homer, bobbing for meatballs at a Halloween party last year, after a few
There's my garage. Last summer. It looks a lot like that now, only with boxes and boxes of care package stuff also.
That's it for now, there's plenty more to come, but they're scattered all over memory cards, computers, and jump drives.
Feel free to post your mundane photos, if you have any floating around.