When it gets real hot like this I keep my undies in the ice box.

Oh the pain.
I feel that I am about two steps this side of death. Barely. We are into the third week of the program and I want to collapse. Or kill something. Something that might resemble a student? Well, you may be on to me.
I wish my motha could see me now. She always complains that I am lazy when I am in Missoula. If. She. Only. Knew.
Alright. Enough with the self pity.
I took the chickens to the UN on Saturday (je suis un dork). Its for an assignment where they have to go and experience a part of New York they’ve never been to before and then write about it, thinking about place as character or something. I feel that they were a little under whelmed. I, however, entered the security council chambers and nearly started crying. (je suis over emotional)
Then I took them to Café Reggio.
I also saw SLC Skirts. Jarky was not in a skirt. Or even a kilt. He was wearing something that had a sneaking resemblance to pants. That bastard. I was misled. But he was funny and I love him and I got to hear all about Operation Too-Cute-For-Words-So-Us-Bitter-Normal-People-Wont-Even-Try-To-Begin-To-Describe-It. Theresa and I get the best friends EVER award for staying up waaaaaaaaaay past our bed time to see him. (I was out after the kiddies curfew. Gota love that ol double standard.)
Wednesday, this coming Wednesday, is my night off. Back when I had energy I planed on going wild. Yeah. Not so much. But I am planning on a nice meal (not downstein thank god) and perhaps you me and everyone we know (mostly because it got good reviews but also partly because it has the guy who plays Saul on Deadwood and I fancy him). So if you are in New York and I love you, you are totally invited.


And now a chicken anecdote:
I’m sitting in the courtyard of the MoMA while the kiddies run amuck talking to my father about this and that. He’s puttering about the house, talking on the portable when he suddenly says to me “Honey, I need to put the phone down for a sec. one, two, three, four, five, six, chickens just got into the house.” Apparently, they started to roost on the kitchen table.
Who wants to come over to my house for dinner when I get back?
All I have to say it, there just isn’t enough bleach in the world to get me to eat off that table again.