From natter:

Sarameg:

I am causing other peoples' mondays!

Ita:

Ooh, I love that as a threat--don't make me come over there and cause a Monday!

lisah:

Or for later in the week

don't make me come over there and make your Thursday a Monday!

The inimitable Allyson:

Ask a simple question, get cirque de sol in response. We're like a clown car full of snark.

Consuela: Oh, holy fuck.

My boss, and his boss, just gave notice.

DXMachina: That means you're the new boss, right? Or is your organizational chart not structured like a Klingon warship's?

KristinT, in Natter. It's funny 'cause it's true....

Note to self: playing "The Sims" when already stressed = bad idea

"Why does my Sim keep CRYING?? Stop crying! You want a pony? A new car! PLEASE stop crying!"

Even after I finally managed to get the strength to stop playing, I kept wondering if the Sims get lonely when I turn off my X-Box.

Who thought that playing a game about managing all the little stressful details of multiple people's lives was RELAXING? Whose idea was this? I want names, NAMES.

Because Buffistas make me laugh even when they're talking about death....

JZ: To hell with that no crying crap. I want people bawling their eyes out at my sendoff. There'll be plenty of good food, and stories and laughing are also encouraged, but tears are mandatory.

eta: Donation and cremation as well, but still with the tears. Wailing is acceptable. And I'll probably put a clause in my will handing over all my signed first editions to the first mourner who ululates.

Ginger: I've signed the papers for my body to go to the local medical school, to be snickered at by med students. If something goes awry with that, it's the Body Farm or anything useful. I wonder if I could leave my body to Mythbusters to shoot or blow up or something.

I'm catching up in Natter, where Nilly's poetry defines Home:

Oh, and to answer my own question: when I say the word "Home" (and in Hebrew, it's the same word for "house", so I like the English distinction between the two better), what my mind's eye see is not the interior of anywhere, but rather a window. For the longest time on my way to my parents' place, from highschool, the bus-stops I used both during my national service and on my BA, and even after I moved out, I would get to near the building (they lived on the 5th floor), look up, and see if there's a light in a few windows: my siblings' room, the room I shared with my sister, the big living-room windows, and the back-kitchen window. By that, before I put a foot inside, I could already tell who's there and even guess what they're doing. That lifting up of the head, the understanding of what each light in the window means, that's what 'smells' like the word "Home", for me.

Sue in Natter:

Don't you worry there might be a monkey/cat conspiracy to take over the planet? All cats have been missing are opposable thumbs. All the monkeys have been missing are the devious minds...

Steph in Natter:

You could not be wronger if you tried, on the wrongest-thinking day of your life with an electric wrong-thinking machine manufactured by Wrongallthetime Corp.

Aren't those the guys who make the voting machines?

Trudy Booth in Bitches:

I've joined zipcar. I think they should have zipboyfriend. I book a guy for an hour and he comes over, brings me soup, puts a cloth on my head. It would be awesome.