A day spent in another meeting, in another town, with eight other red shirts. Tediously going through seven or eight pages of document, line by line.

Three of us sniffling at one quarantined end of the table.

Water from snowmelt dripping noisily through the ceiling onto the Mayor's deskmat.

The heeler sisters got to pee in the alley behind a local landmark that most people in our state would know. And defended their lunch from another black and white bark monster.

Lunchtime conversation dealt largely with one of the most senior members' recent purchase: beachfront property in Baja, Mexico.

Yeah, he's going "Corona".

As one labor-generating change in the document was proposed, this member announced, "It doesn't matter to me."

"I'm not in that process."

"And I only have 124 days left."