As I pointed out in a previous post, my birthday was on March 15^th. I turned the ripe old age of 26 and had a good time doing so. At any rate, a few days ago I check my mail and find a birthday card which was postmarked from Columbus, OH. All it says is “Happy 26^th! Jason”. I know three Jasons and none of them would be likely to send me a birthday card and I know for a fact that two of them don’t live anywhere near Columbus, OH. The only thing I can think is that someone who visits this site sent it to me.

If that’s the case then please send me an email to so I can thank you for the card.

That’s when it’s all over and Lauren and I will officially be no more in the eyes of the law. It’s at this point I’d like to lament the divorce laws of Washington for making a couple of young kids wait months before finalizing everything. Seriously, it’s just stupid.

The next day, March 15^th, is my birthday. I’ll be turning the ripe old age of 26. 30 is right around the corner. A few days later I’ll be at a local Irish pub enjoying green beer in celebration of the fact that I was not named Patrick as my parents had planned if I had been born on March 17^th.

Other than the upcoming busy week things are going fairly well. I have lots of work sitting in front of me, we move facilities and started upgrading some of our equipment and I’m kicking myself for not hitting 24 inches of fresh powder with Garren at Stephen’s Pass yesterday. Oh well, at least it’s sunny out today.

On Friday I ventured down to Key Arena with Lauren. The deal was that if she couldn’t find someone to go to the game with then we’d go together. As luck would have it my boss was there with a friend as well sitting in the first row with four empty seats next to him. I think everyone knows where this is going. Lauren and I were able to make our down to the first row at center court. In the picture above you’ll see Chauncey Billups and Rasheed Wallace each sitting about 8 feet away from us and the guy in the white shirt is Bill Laimbeer.

Josh, this is the point where you ball up in the fetal position as the only response to your overwhelming sense of jealousy and rage at the fact you weren’t there with me drinking a beer and sitting in the awe that is Hamilton hitting a buzzer beater with 0.2 seconds left on the clock.