My home is my own again

I breathed a pleasant sigh of relief at monshu's last night because I realised that when I went back to my apartment, I would be the only one there. Not that my houseguest was that bad. The low point was stumbling over his dirty briefs while hitting the head in the wee hours, but things improved to the point where, right before he left, he stripped the sheets for laundering--all because I had remarked earlier that it's a habit I've picked up from monshu. Still, it all left me even more convinced that the irresistable man-child is nothing mroe than a male fantasy dreamed up by Hollywood screenwriters. Where is the charm in someone who can't even make coffee or get around town without help?

Latest reason why monshu is the best boyfriend ever Last night, riding back from delivering my houseguest safely to the Amtrak station, I felt exhausted, cranky, and ill. I considered going right home to bed, but instead I decided to pick up some broth and eat it with the white rice my man was fixing as an accompaniment to dinner. But the convenient next door didn't have any brands I liked, so I only came back to his place and complained. He got dressed, went out, and came back with the broth and ginger ale to help settle my stomach.

EFR: It's not uncommon for me to run into late-night dog walkers as I'm crossing the park at night. It is unusual, however, for one of them to be swinging around a yard-long one-by-three. I couldn't tell if the elderly man was deliberately swatting dandelion seed heads or if there was an even more mysterious purpose to his low swings and they just happened to get in the way.