Our backyard.

We've got a patch of grass out back which was, according to Nathan, mowed yesterday. Whomever mowed it moved my old blue soccer ball to behind the back stairs--it took me about five minutes of searching, with my cleats sounding like high heels* on the pavement of the driveway, until I found it. After a couple decent kicks, I hit the fence with a left-footed half-volley and sent the ball over the fence, into the nextdoor neighbors' lushly tropical backyard. So much for that.

In other news, today at work I was almost certain that a middle-aged production editor was listening to Fennesz. She asked me if I wanted her to turn it down, and I said, "No, I'm actually kind of into it." But for all I know, it could have been something terrible. I've always wondered how people's cultural tastes evolve as they get older, and I'm not any closer to figuring it out.

* I have a pathological hatred of this sound, to the point where I'm tempted to openly glare at women wearing heels.