So I PowerPointing in PJs. Yes, it's wretched duty, but it holds the fabric of the known universe together.
About 11, I notice that I'm hungry. I need some chickpea salad and maybe a little tabouli. That suggests Neomonde. The one on Beryl. Being prudent, I wait until 1 to lose the PJs for jeans.
Drive over getting gasoline along the way. The freakin' lunch crowd is STILL in my way.
When will this sufferment end?
Come home to graze, which means I write this blog while drinking a first course of buttermilk. London broil will follow.
When I stepped out of the car, I had to dodge this fuzzy worm as it scooted across the pavement. Maybe I should have eaten it for lunch, but the manual suggests leaving the fuzzy worms alone because the fuzz is pointy enough to abraid the esophogus.
I'll never know for sure.
So I stooped down to take the pick. Way down. Snap. Then I stood up.
Way too fast, and found myself stumbling back against the car. For as stone cold sober as I was, I'd likely have failed the policeman's physical sobriety test for that 30 seconds.
That has not happened in a long time, and I put the blame directly on Neomonde on Beryl.
Mental note to self: Never ever again go to Neomonde on Beryl for lunch on a weekday.
-- Posted from a mobile device