I write "for so-and-so Merry Christmas love, LIZ" on a piece of wrapping paper and tape it to their gift.
'Sleeper'
Spike's Bitches 33: Weeping, crawling, blaming everybody else
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risque (and frisque), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
Gronk. Time to pack up and head out. Need. Coffee.
KRISTIN!
(Bet you still need the coffee...especially now that I startled you.)
I feel human today! Thanks for all the get better ma.
Suzi, your gift idea sounds perfect.
vw! Kristin! d!
As a cellist in high school and college, I am SO ON BOARD with that Pachelbel's rant. This one time, not at band camp, a violinst and I were hired to play chamber music for an art gallery opening. They wanted ONE SOLID HOUR of the Canon in D. After 10 minutes of it I was capable of holding conversations with the guests while still playing.
Raq, that sounds unfun!
I always got messed up in music playing when I had to count bars of rest. I always lost count after about 10 bars.
hey wanted ONE SOLID HOUR of the Canon in D.
Heh. Classic.
I'm in the Delta terminal at JFK. It sucks. Why doesn't Jetblue fly to Tupelo, MS?
I am so with you all on the P. Canon. As a string player I've played three out of the four parts (violin 1 and 2 and viola). Many. Many. Times.
I am cleaning out the Closet of Death. Doesn't everyone have one of these; you know, the closet where you toss in all the random crap that doesn't go anywhere else? Well, I haven't touched mine in the four years that I've lived in my wee one-bedroom, and in a massive attack (not related to the band) of overcompensating-for-my-mess-of-a-life cleaning fit, I am cleaning.
And I have opened the closet, and tossed everything into a ginormous pile on the LR floor. It's all piled in front of my door, which is my only ingress/egress, so I HAVE to clean it in order to leave my apartment (unless I (a) choose to tumble out my bedroom window, like the world dustiest and most graceless cat burglar, sans cats, or (b) never again leave my house, subsisting on green beans, raw macaroni and tumeric, until death come with the inevitable discovery of my benibbled-by-cats corpse by neighbors.)
I have loaded a yard-sized hefty bag with 4 years worth of crumpled gift bags, empty shoe boxes and ratty tissue paper. Why do I have this bizarre compulsion to save this shit? It's not like I ever WRAP anything, and the shoe boxes...? Do I think someday I will need to make a couple of Valentine's Day boxes? WHY?
In addition to the paper trash, I have found two humidifiers (I don't remember having ONE), a elderly hard-sided suitcase from the 50's, two dead bugs, lots of dust, three lamps that don't work, a keyboard, the Piltdown Man's left femur, Cleopatra's makeup case, Jimmy Hoffa, Socrate's diary, some dusty Scotch tape, Dolly Parton's training bra, and 12 oz. of weapon's-grade plutonium.
- sigh*