Revenge of the Drywall

Not sure just now if drywall is one or two words. I have made an executive decision, therefore. Take note.

This was going to be a wedding post. This was going to be audio. There will be audio, but UPS has failed me yet again. A note on my door saying that attempted delivery failed: “Will try again tomorrow between the hours of 2 and 5.” … And studio recorder is again out of reach. And good luck with that 2-5 thing, seeing as I am at work, and yet again, no one will sign for it. Please, Mr. UPS dude, use the two brain cells God gave you and try the office two doors down!

Steve and Laurie came in to grab some last minute things before he whisks her away to honeymoon bliss. She has no idea where she’s going for said honeymoon bliss: she is only supposed to worry about following turn-by-turn directions. And trust me, Steve is good at turn-by-turn everything. She has nothing to worry about. Oh for nothing to worry about.

Coral, I miss you. No, I will not come back to you. Please know you make me happy on a daily basis. Consider the following from your blog:

“may i just say, studying greek all morning was more fun than a barrel of monkeys (although just how someone would know that, i don’t know, since i have
never actually encountered anyone who had personal one on one experience with a barrel of monkeys – i think if i ever met someone like that, they would
be my hero for at least a couple of minutes, until i was distracted by something shiny) and something that i would recommend to anyone.”

LOL! You know, I only laugh this hard when talking to Kristin. Or maybe Ember, too. Crazy. I wasn’t with you guys nearly long enough.

I was truly saddened to go back to read your abominable snowman post (because it was a real and meaningful post that I had already read three times) … and you’d taken it down. Or did you close it up? Or perhaps you packed it in. … Well it was gone. I prayed for Reuben anyway. I will not be deterred.

Please no one come look at this apartment. It’s a pig sty. It smells from unwashed dishes (mainly from the sausage and egg casserole dad nearly burned down the house with friday morning). Ah, Friday morning. And the dog hair has long exceeded a harvestable depth on the floor. There could be small children under there somewhere. … Well, good. Because there’s nothing in the fridge.