Home, barely. Husband goes to gas station for two cans of oil. Daughter runs past me on way to vet, pausing long enough to grab my credit card. Mr. Grimshaw is hurt. Somehow Mr. G managed to break his pelvis. Swimming. Aren't frogs supposed to be good at that? The cure is let it self-knit (this sentence cost me fifty dollars from the exotic vet). A little depressed, I am beginning to wonder why I have eliminated most of my vices. They would come in so handy right about now.