The sun is too bright. The air conditioner is running. The unseasonably pretty spring is over, just in time for hurricane season, and it's boiling hot.
What else is there to do but work?
That seems to be my clients' assumption, anyway. I have got so much work piling up (Hurray for patent litigation!), I could work every day, including weekends, from now to mid-July. But I won't.
We are also slouching towards unpacking now that all of Oz's stuff is here. What little he kept. I asked him, "So, do you feel light as a feather or plucked like a chicken?"
Tonight he brought over the last of it, his plants and the terracotta pots to which he is particularly attached. Alas, the six foot tall Norfolk pine and the eight foot tall corn plant remained behind. We just have no room here, unless they could survive outdoors all year round.
The stacks of boxes in the middle of the floor are not all that scary, really. And at least his lava lamps are already set up in a row on a bookcase in the living room. Classy. I have them in a switched power strip too.
I'm beginning to think we've got room for everything. Besides, the man brought his own closets with him. How often does that happen?
221 words | May 31, 2006 09:42 PM | Real true story