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I had insomnia last night so I wasn't going to post. Four hours sleep = incoherent writing so I was going to avoid that. Yet, here I am.

One of the fun things about writing, I've found, is that just when you think "Meh, I don't have anything to say today." something usually pops up. Tonight's muse was the parking lot of a bar.

Because Kevin is a rocking husband, I bought dinner tonight. Also, he wants to watch four hours of 24 tonight so bringing dinner home speeds up the process. I will be sleeping on the couch while "reading magazines" and being startled alert by Jack Bauer saving the world one terrorist at a time.

Buying dinner tonight was not planned so I just ran down to the local bar & grill for sandwiches. The bar has been there forever and it feels like it. I think the people sitting at the actual bar have been sitting there since before I was born. Although smoking isn't allowed in Washington State, it still permeates the air. Like all bars, it was dark & sports were playing on multiple televisions. Every head turned as if I was dropped into an episode of Cheers.

While I'm not a big drinker or bar person, I feel at home in them. You see, I was raised by alcoholics. Thus the telephone number as the title. I had that number memorized by the time I was six. I remember calling that number because my brother was picking on me or I was hungry or needed something for school.

So the smell of an old-time bar is a childhood memory. I think I can walk into any bar & feel at home. I was raised by the people there.