that's great news, d! although I'm sorry you won't get to see his rehab.
I need some kind of juice that will help me concentrate! I'm so distracted.
'Beneath You'
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risqué (and frisqué), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
that's great news, d! although I'm sorry you won't get to see his rehab.
I need some kind of juice that will help me concentrate! I'm so distracted.
Great news d.
In odd sighting news - just saw a gal in a nice tweed business suit, black turtleneck, and fishnet stockings with very conservative shoes. wtf?
Fishnets are continuing to become more mainstream, I guess.
It's a way to be a rebel but still look put together? Much like Booth and his socks/belt buckles?
Wouldn't concentration juice be the best?
Everything else was SO conservative. I mean, I've worn fishnets to work before, so that is not the boggle. No hose would have fit the outfit more than fishnets.
I'm getting pretty tired about sharing one phone with two other teachers. Actually, I don't mind the sharing -- I never use it -- I mind it being in my room. I get calls for them during class. And I can't count on having alone time. Dammit, get off the phone!
d, that's great news about your father! when do you leave to go visit?
Sox, lots of house ~ma! I just talked to our agent and he just dropped what sounded remarkably like a hint that the sellers would take our counter-counter offer. And I was busy plotting my route for open houses this weekend. Now I have to have him re-write the counter-counter so that if they sign the darn thing this week, Yom Kippur is not counted as a day.
Sparky, I leave Tuesday evening. Less than a week, now!
Lots of house-ma for both Sparky and Sox!
Emily, your phone woes don't sound like fun. Can you just unplug the phone? Run a longer cord and stick the phone in the hallway?
A pox on these landlubbers an' their ways! Me day was bad enough before I e'en sailed from port this dawn, what with the wee deckhand objectin' to his rations, and generally setting to makin' the ship look like she'd been through the mother of all typhoons.
But here, at Port Office, where I expect to be given a wide berth as befits my rank and standing (and cutlass), the poxy lubbers can't seem to tell fore from aft an' have been howling their tales of woe outside my battlements for hours.
Sun's over the yardarm somewhere, says I. Time for grog, says I.