Woke up good and early on Monday morning to get out of the house in time to go into town to get a local paper. We’d really like to know a little more about what’s going on in the community closest to us, and we are also hoping that the Bear Creek Bee or the Felton Picayune or whatever it’s called has local news. I’m expecting something that comes out weekly and is still only 8 pages including the classifieds.

We went into town and stopped at a place we’d seen advertised as having “world famous muffins.” There were several tempting-looking varieties, and I chose blueberry bran and some tea. pirateguillermo got a blueberry scone and coffee. He waited until we got off the fractal that is Bear Creek Road to start drinking his coffee, which he pronounced to be the second-worst coffee he’d ever tasted. The absolute worst was at a 7-11 on the corner of Prospect and Torrance in Redondo Beach which tasted like someone had been boiling iron filings since 1947.

I had hoped that it was only the coffee, but the tea was just as bad. This after I had blithely announced “How can you screw up putting a teabag in some water?” Well, here’s how: use creek water. I just can’t imagine what else they could be using, apart from raw sewage. I start hoping that the muffins aren’t world famous for being even worse than the coffee.

I dropped pirateguillermo off and put the muffin in its paper bag in the passenger’s seat. I occasionally reached into the bag, breaking little pieces off and putting them into my mouth as I was driving. At one point I looked down and realized that my muffin had an 8-inch-long gray hair trailing from it. So...their muffins are famous for being hairy. I doubt we’ll be going back to the Home of Hirsute Muffins anytime soon. They didn’t even have the local paper there.

Monday night I got to pirateguillermo's office to pick him up and realized that my cell phone was dead. I walked around to the front office, but it was closed and there was no visible outside phone. No worries, I thought. I had told him I’d be getting off at 5, so he’d know to look for me. Except that he didn’t. I sat in the parking lot and waited for half and hour, pacing and wondering whether he had called my office and realized that I had already left, but that didn’t happen. The poor baby has been so buried at work that his head was really elsewhere. The upshot was that we had our second moving fight. The one where we scream at each other while simultaneously wishing that there was some magic way to say “I’m done with this conversation. I don’t care about what happened anymore. I love you and I don’t want to be having this fight.” Luckily, “I’m sorry,” said by both of us, works out pretty well for that.