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Monday. Phooey.

The Monday after a vacation is mighty grim, I guess that shouldn't be much of a surprise.

Jennifer came by the office and I gave her a giant sack of errands to run for me. That was awfully handy because I never could have finished them at lunch time, especially since lunch time never came. Right before we left I had emailed her a list of things I was frantic over not completing. She sent me a note back:

hopefully you'll get this before you leave-don't worry about it, I might take the metro home anyways. it will be fun, there will be banjo players and everything (maybe even a washboard player) just make sure you bring a comfy chair and $12-15 for showers (VERY IMPORTANT)
~Jen
(P.S. you are the ONLY person, that I know of, that I can try to console by using a banjo player as a prize, FYI)


Well, she didn't end up doing any of the stuff I thought was so important and it turned out that it wasn't important after all. What I want to know is where my kids got their dreadful taste in music. I used to think that I liked all kinds of music, but I learned a few years ago that I don't. There are at least two kinds I can't stand: Jennifer's and Christopher's. Sharing a car radio with them is torture. Brian is even worse, he likes talk radio. Gah.

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