Every science fiction digest has a flavor. Part of it is due to the whimsy of the editor, part of it is the niche the magazine is trying to fill, and part of it is luck of the draw.
Astounding can be summed up in just a few words: psionic, smug, workmanlike, crackpot, inbred.
Not necessarily in that order.
I routinely happen upon men who are perplexed when I eventually declare that I want to know where we stand. Indecision is not a noble virtue. If a man is in “Not really feeling this becoming more than what it is,” territory, I should be made aware in no uncertain terms. If a man is in “I am waiting for someone else to be my girlfriend but I’ll keep you around till I find her” territory, I ought to know that too. My feelings, and the feelings of many people I know, are more hurt by the prolonged waiting for a concrete answer while we sit quietly with our feigned Chill. It is as if I’ve broken some unwritten law when I ask what they are looking for and am dissatisfied with the answer “I don’t really like to put labels on things.” But putting labels on things are how people find the exit during a fire and make sure they’re adding vanilla extract to the cake instead of arsenic.
Alana Massey on the prevalence of chill— a lack of care so pervasive that it renders all emotions both obsolete and passé— is something I wish I'd read when I was 14, or 17, or 20, or even, occasionally, now, times when I've stuffed my feelings deep down in order to make myself more palatable. Recently, my boyfriend told me I have zero chill; I responded in the only way I know how. I've come so far!0 Comments
Are there any books you'd recommend where humanity was the good guys but long past. Something kinda like Silverberg's At Winter's End? However, I am hoping for something a little less apocalyptic.
Money is unclean. Cash flows; as it slips constantly out of debtor’s hands into creditor’s, fingerprints, stains, emotional and moral significations muck up the paper—over time, cash even builds up its own scent. That musk rarely transfers onto polite women anymore, who rarely touch dollar bills in the age of Venmo and sugar baby feminism. Rihanna still wants it in cash. Bad Gal, unmoored and uninspired by American dichotomies of cleanliness and defilement as she is, prefers her payment liquid and solid to the touch.
This is the first paragraph from Doreen St. Felix's piece on Rihanna's prosperity gospel, and it only gets better and better with each following sentence. Read it, watch the video for "Pour It Up" on repeat for the rest of the day, bye.0 Comments
Benedict might not have won the Oscar—but he certainly won the absolutely perfect girl.
[Ansel] Elgort has swiftly proved to be multifariously talented as both an EDM DJ (last month, he played Ultra Music Festival in Miami under the sobriquet Ansolo) and, particularly, as a social-media sensation.
Turns out there is such a thing as an ambitious bohemian.
I’m never one to shy away from a challenge, especially when it comes to dressing etiquette: a big gown worn with messy hair, a red lip with a pair of beat-up jeans, a twinset paired with leather pants.
Admittedly, this was Fashion Month, where being daring is as normal as drinking the next green juice, but…where were the haters?
On the morrow, Stefano and Domenico unveiled their first alta sartoria (bespoke menswear) collection in the piano nobile of a splendid Milanese mansion, lavished with Empire frescoes. That night a Weimar-cabaret mood prevailed at the designers’ celebratory party, where guests where bidden to “express yourself.” Anna Dello Russo wore a harp on her head—and the matador José María Manzanares frolicked in a giant sparkling crescent moon.
If last year was dominated by the juice cleanse, this is shaping up to be the year of the designer meal delivery.
Precious few teen superstars are afforded a chance to remake themselves as adult artists, but could Justin Bieber—the pop singer with the sad-puppy eyes, taffy-sweet tenor, and spit-polished pecs—be undergoing that alchemical transfiguration before our very eyes?
“It looks haphazard and quite informal, but every book is in the right place,” explains Nicky Dunne of the more than 4,000-volume library he curated and collected for Nina Flohr and her father, VistaJet founder Thomas Flohr, at their St. Moritz chalet.
She ran with a rubber mask on until she was exhausted, lay quietly in a dark room to measure her resting metabolic rate, stood on a machine that sent electronic signals through her body, and had photographs taken of her posture from every angle.
“You sound pretty healthy,” she said when I explained my situation. “Do you just want to be rock-star skinny?” I assured her that I simply wanted to feel comfortable on the beach without a caftan.
A filigree of gilt adds a goddess touch to the easy earthiness of the flats-and-frocks combination.
Erdem Moralioglu is a prime proponent of the newly discovered pleasures of the mid-calf swish.
[Iggy] Azalea also has a lovely visage and a willowy physique—at least from the front. But let’s face it: She is also famous for an impressive backside, an attribute that has been garnering outsize attention of late.
They looked at fabrics and a variety of lace, from fragile cotton to cobweb Chantilly. Piccioli felt “something more medieval and austere was more fitting,” and produced a stiff metallic lace of a light silvery hue worked with appropriately fecund motifs of vines and pomegranates developed from an antique fragment. A nineteenth-century loom in Switzerland was specially adapted to replicate it accurately.1 Comments
Trying to decide which is my favorite question is difficult. During the time of The Borgias, were all Italians accompanied by background music or was it reserved for the privileged? Or Battle of the Blackwater: Could wildfire REALLY melt wooden beams? Or Prince Humperdink was found mutilated in his bedchamber. The popular story is that the Dread Pirate Roberts did this to him. Is there any evidence for that? Why would Roberts have it out for him? or...well, perhaps it's Is "Sailor Moon" an accurate representation of what it was like to be a Magical Girl in the 1990's?
I spend a lot of time reading articles written by parents who list specific desires for their children’s futures, and I listen to a lot of my friends who have children describe, with a lot of specificity, what they’d like their child’s life to be: what kind of schools, where they might like them to grow up, and how they might turn out in the end. It’s usually pretty straightforward: financial stability, emotional health, safe drinking water, for them to be feminists, or to go to Harvard. And much of the time, it’s a reflection of whatever that parent values—or lacks. If you grew up with an alcoholic parent, you desperately want for your child to not have one of those to deal with (or become one). If you didn’t go to a great college, well, maybe you’ll want desperately for your kid to claw into the Ivy League. This makes sense; it’s a rational response to your own upbringing.
Yet I struggle to figure out what I want for my daughter. I can’t think in the goal-oriented way that most other parents do about their offspring; I never get much beyond “I hope she’s not a murderer” or “I just want her to be healthy.” I don’t know how I’d like her to turn out: a weird misfit, like her parents, a completely normal, socially generous person, a musical prodigy? No idea. It’s not because I don’t care—I’m just a person who struggles with decisions, which is as true for what have for dinner as it for “do I want children?” I didn’t know I wanted a baked potato for dinner, until I did. I didn’t know if I ever wanted to be married, until I did. And I didn’t know if I wanted a baby, until I did.
This is an okay way to go about living. It allows a lot of ruminating, followed by snap decisions: “I’ll have the potato.” “Okay, let’s get married.” “I want to have a baby.” A potato, a life, a baby. I’ve come to believe that not finishing things—my dinner, the dishes, an article I’m writing, a book I’m reading, a decision I know I should be making—is a way to avoid the weird feeling I feel inside when something is done, finished, over. The absence of a to-do list in my life feels bad, but a completed one feels worse: What next?
I’ve learned to make lists of precisely what I want at the grocery store in order to avoid the terrible sinking of my body and mind into the aisles, unsure of what kind of yogurt to buy or what type of green I’m in the mood for. I plan meals in advance and have a general list of staples I never leave a store without: fruit, almond milk, whole milk Fage yogurt, whole wheat or rye bread, and avocados. We frequent the same establishments over and over, and for my part I know that it’s at least sometimes because I don’t want to have to make a decision— going to a new place requires a decisive action, an abrasion against the usual. No thanks. I can’t be bothered because I can’t make up my fucking mind.
This has become a problem as I’ve slowly come into possession of a family: a dog, a husband, a child. Pre-family Laura didn’t have to worry about what anyone else thought about her strolling back and forth across the living room floor, picking her cuticles as she tried to decide what book to read, only to retreat to an arm chair with three or four. Only once I got an audience did I realize how exasperating I truly am. My husband, thankfully, doesn’t suffer from indecisiveness on any level; he can make life-changing decisions in moments because he knows what he wants all the time. He not only balances me out, but he has made me more aware of my own deficiencies.
Having a child changed the speed at which we (I) live. Though I’ve always worked best under the pressure of a deadline, a due date, a forcible force forcing me to finish the thing already, motherhood brought with it that sense of urgency to EVERYTHING. There are never enough hours in the day, and there are hundreds of little decisions in parenting, from the relatively unimportant—“what are the best diapers?” (Huggies Slip ons!)—to the truly momentous—“who is the best pediatrician?” (Dr. Kasia, Greenpoint Tribeca Pediatrics). I have learned to chug through decisions like they’re water: Pick a wallpaper, choose a baby name, find the source of the leak, get it done. Finish this edit, then call the guy about the well, don’t put it off! You’re running low on time, Laura, and that is going to be true forever: accept that you’ll never read all of the books you want to, you’ll die before that happens, so read the ones you must read, and read them now.
This isn’t my natural state of being, obviously. It isn’t always fun: in addition to struggling to adjust to the pace of motherhood, and all of the changes that come with it, I’ve also been forced to truly change my behavior in lots of little daily ways. This sense of saying “here’s what I want” as an imposition on me, the person, has been reduced by circumstance: I’m so busy that most of the time, I’m simply not bothered by the fact that I’m MAKING UP MY MIND every second. I’ve evolved. When left to myself, sure, I’ll avoid making the last edits on my column for as long as I can, or deciding what I’m going to have for lunch. But I’ve also actually learned to waste less time by simply doing the things I need to do, making all the little decisions I need to make as I mow through my day. It is freeing, and it frees my mind up to just be alive. I can decide, even if I don’t really want to. And I don’t, believe me.
What do I want for my daughter? I want her to be able to decide what she wants, for herself. And hopefully she won’t put it off for as long as I did.0 Comments
-sorin & veli tree-sex-related silliness (851 words)
-demon patrol chapter idk the next one (2 505 words)
-ofic: post-magical meteor apocalypse cult escape (11 308 words)
-battlefield terra chapter 9 (762 words)
-ofic: magical building manager (1 472 words)
jesus i don't know why things have been so shit writing-wise recently but this month is the absolute worst in like four or five years. so sulky. *grumps off into the night, grumping*
How would you describe your friendships with other men, and do you wish they were different?
Hah! Ugh. This is a timely question, because I am currently making a concerted effort to develop more male friendships. Not an easy thing for me! I'm not really sure why that is? I mean, I have theories. Among them: men are mostly terrible. The only thing worse than a man is a group of men. I should know! I am a man, and I've been a man in a group of men, and I'm sure I've been a terrible man in a group of terrible men. It happens! Anyway, the point is—I have a difficult time relating to other men. That is not to say that I am not close with any men at all—just the opposite, in fact. But I've had a much easier time befriending women than men.
(If I want to be more cynical in my self-analysis, it could even be suggested that I've found more validation from the attention of women than from the attention of men—and, frankly, as a tall, good-looking, apparently pleasant person, that attention has usually been pretty forthcoming. I'M A MONSTER, LOL. It's fine, though. I'll get my comeuppance when I'm old and fat and nobody will flirt with me anymore.)
So, okay. Most of my friendships have developed, I think, in one of two ways: some friendships are born of experience and some are born of conversation. Basically. I think. In Friendships of Experience, you come to know someone through sharing the process of accomplishing or enduring some external thing—you know them through their actions and reactions to the thing, rather than, necessarily, their feelings about the thing. Friendships of Conversation, though—if they are to become heartfelt and serious—require a much more willful vulnerability. You have to chose to reveal something of yourself to another person, rather than have it revealed through circumstance.
In my experience, these two different ways of getting to know people seem to track along gendered lines. (Haha, how much am I hedging right now? “In my experience.” “Seem to be.” THIS IS A SAFE SPACE, RIGHT?? SMH. Just come out and say it, man.)
Right, so, my best dude friend is a guy who I went to college with—we drank together, lived together, played sports together. Our girlfriends were best friends and we went through the post-college break-ups together. Now we're both writers, living in different cities, and we talk on the phone every couple weeks. Sometimes we even talk about our feelings! With him though, we generally only talk about our feelings when it’s, like, an emergency.
My best women friends, meanwhile, have all been people with whom I was pretty emotionally honest from a very early stage. We talked about our feelings, which was much easier for me to do with women than it was with men. Like I said, though, I don’t really know why? I mean, part of it is probably an internalized expectation that women are more willing and able to take on emotional labor like that. But then again, that may do a disservice to the mutuality of my friendships with these women! For whom I am, regardless, truly grateful.
It may also be worth noting that, for me, drinking was for a long time an essential component of male friendships and probably made up a good percentage of the "shared experiences" (hmm) of those friendships. When I stopped drinking, it became a lot more difficult to find ways to relate to other men. I think to go on about it at any length might just obscure the issue for anyone who isn’t in recovery, but this process has largely been one of learning how I relate to people—or don’t—and why I relate to them that way—or don’t—but I think it is relevant in that it has revealed, to me, the necessity of a willingness to be vulnerable in truly adult friendships, and the relative difficulty that presents with respect to my relationships with men and with women. So, take all of that for what you will.
Anyway, the sooner I allow myself to be forthcoming and forthright with other men about my emotional experiences, the sooner, I think, I will feel a little bit more at home in the world, generally, and a little more comfortable around other men, specifically. The prospect of this is abjectly terrifying.
How do you feel about misandry jokes?
Well, as we’ve established, men are terrible. And if someone's feelings are hurt by jokes about men being horrible monsters, they should probably try—just try!—to unpack why that may be the case? Rather than, you know, lashing out. I mean, a good habit for everyone—but especially (ESPECIALLY) men—to practice is, like, if a tweet is making you upset, maybe try to figure out why whatever the tweet is about is a sensitive subject for you, rather than screaming like an overtired baby at that woman you don’t actually know. Just a suggestion! Also: it’s just a tweet, bro!
(Misandry and misandrist jokes of course extend beyond Twitter/The Internet but I feel like that their salience in that realm is probably what this question is about? I apologize if I am misinterpreting.)
Now, that having been said, I also need to be particularly careful with my own reaction to misandry jokes—and, more broadly, misandrist jokes—precisely because I feel like "I get it," like I'm in on the joke. Because like, okay, yeah, sure, maybe I am, but that feeling can very easily translate into, "I get it and we’re on the same team and now I’m butting into this conversation because I want to be validated for 'getting it.'" Which is its own kind of inappropriate!
There have definitely been times when I’ve thoughtlessly indulged that impulse and been reprimanded or received a snarky response in return and been oh so very offended and hurt until I took the time to realize, "Dude, you’re just being kind of silly and obnoxious, and it’s fine, but like, maybe save that one to drafts next time?" Again: it happens. And there is, as we know, never any downside to Not Tweeting.
I am a messy person. An extremely messy person. If there’s someone else to consider, I’ll make the effort, but since I live alone, my apartment looks pretty much like the inside of a sock drawer except with way more hair and spiders. (Once I let a spider hang out in the doorway to my kitchen for many months, because it took care of my ant problem, but left a giant ant graveyard mere feet away from my bed.) I don’t mind mess, I’ve accepted messiness as part of my character and normally I'm only mildly embarrassed about it. The only time I ever feel ashamed is when I have company, specifically sexual/romantic company. I can clean up a little, but not so much that it hides how essentially messy I am, and while the stereotype is that men are way messier than women, most women are not as messy as I am. My strategy so far has been to apologize profusely and serve a strong drink as quickly as possible, but I am a grown-ass woman dating increasingly grown-ass people and I guess my question is—how long, and how much, can I get away with this?
Ehh. I mean. I personally am not trying to date somebody whose roommate is a spider? But like, that’s just me? And I especially I do not think you should necessarily change the way that you live in order to trap a person in a web of your own making. (Women! They’re like spiders.) (LOL, KIDDING.)
Seriously, any lifestyle change that you make has to be for your own sake, otherwise you will just resent the heck out of whoever comes along and for whom you feel like you need to maintain the charade. Be who you are! If that means you are messy, be messy! Someone will love you for it, I promise.
You say you have "accepted messiness as part of [your] character” and are normally only "mildly embarrassed about it.” And I am sure that’s true! But also you feel like you are getting away with something. I think that that is not actually such a good feeling? At least, not in the long-run. Getting away with something is gratifying, so far as it goes, but in my experience it doesn’t end up going very far. I want to do an analogy about WonderBread and a nice baguette, but for whatever reason the words are escaping me oh well.
The reality is you can “get away” with whatever you want for as long as you want to. But! The trouble I have found is that when I have felt like I was getting away with something, and I kept getting away with it, it stopped feeling good a lot sooner than I would have anticipated. So generally, now, when I feel like I’m getting away with something, I try to figure out whatever more difficult thing (“Difficult” here being a relative term—is it really so difficult to put my clothes away after I do laundry? No, it’s not. And yet…) I could be doing something instead that might actually be more gratifying in the long run.
I mean, personally, I’m like, not exactly clean, but I’m not exactly messy, either. I guess I’m like, aspirationally tidy? I am in a constant state of trying and failing to be neat and orderly. Maybe eventually something will click over and I will be the tidy person my mother always wanted me to be, but for now I will continue to oscillate.
All of which is to say, being a grown-ass person is a lot of freaking work but may actually be worth it in the long run? Maybe? MAYBE??? Ugh.
A Dude is one of several rotating dudes who know everything. Do you have any questions for A Dude? Email firstname.lastname@example.org (300 word max, please.)3 Comments
Partying felt less loaded than sex or friendship or family and it surprised me how people never seemed to mind as you went from knowing them to adoring them and then unknowing them, all within a six-to-eight-hour span. With ecstasy there is no serotonergic choice but for everyone to love everyone and then stop. It silenced social math. It’s only when those dials in my head go dark that I can have a good time.
I adored Hairpin pal Mary H. K. Choi's thrilling, honest, funny portrayal of her relationship with ecstasy on Matter. I don't do drugs, what no of course not, but if I DID do drugs I'd probably do something like cry about the series finale of 30 Rock two years after it ended, eat half of a lasagna, then vacillate between delight and irritability about my altered state, yelling, "I HATE THIS. I HAVE STUFF TO DO!!!" I promise I am very fun at parties.
But since I am way too type-A to seriously enter the world of drugs (me: what is the etiquette of this particular drug exchange? Should I send a thank you to note my dealer? Am I obligated to share? Can we all track the puffs/injections/snorts we each took and then split it evenly so that no one feels ripped off?) but continue to be endlessly fascinated by it, I remain on its outskirts, occasionally peeking in. This is an excellent glimpse.1 Comments
The book has a spaceship on the cover, but is it really going to be a story about space exploration and pioneering derring-do? Or is the story merely about racial prejudice and exploitation, with interplanetary or interstellar trappings?
Pretty sure there's a rocket in the background of this collection of stories from the 1940s and I can assure you racial prejudice and exploitation is a recurring theme.
I am not an organized person. This is not one of those self-effacing comments I make about myself where I'm expecting you guys to all jump in and be like "nooo you're sooooo organized omg I love your organizational skills" or whatever. No. If you were to look at my Google Calendars, or my Evernote "system," or my email inbox, you'd be like, shit, that's fucking organized, and yes, you'd be right, but that is something I force myself to do. Like what is the equivalent of kicking and screaming when it's your own brain that's dragging you to do something you don't want to do? Basically my interior monologue is consistently bitching about how, first, she doesn't want to sit still and make a to-do list, and then secondly, how she better make a to-do list or all of this third-person-talking-to-ourselves is going to get us committed.
I started honing this really intense—some might say "absurd" but shut up—system when I started working, lol, three jobs, because that was a thing I did for awhile. At first it was a kind of normal amount of three jobs, if that's even a reasonable statement to make?! Like, I worked a day job for a buyer at a very nice clothing store, and the hours were more or less 10am to 7pm, and then I was just starting to volunteer for WORN as the Promotions Director, and I was doing some very, very light freelance writing. So I'd get up around 6am, work out with a Jillian Michaels DVD (I KNOW I KNOW BUT LET ME FINISH), shower, work on WORN stuff from 7:30 to 9:30, go to work, come home, eat, and work on writing from like 8pm to 11pm or so. And then I did a shift at the WORN office on Saturday afternoons. And I loved it. That's when I got into very loose to-do lists, just like "here's what needs to get done today."
But THEN. When I left my job at the store I replaced it with a slightly more flexible day job—as a virtual assistant for Jennifer Dziura, what's up Jen—and that's when having three jobs became…well, I guess more like what you would expect having three jobs to be like. Like, just constant, crushing, overwhelming amounts of Things To Do in any given day, but for the most part they were all pretty easily defined, easily completed tasks. For example: email this person. Call that person. Write this form. Finish the budget for that grant. And so on and so forth. And that's when I was like, if I don't force myself to pretend to be the most organized person on the face of this dumb Earth my head will explode and I will die and then none of these emails will get sent and I will be even more garbage than I currently am, a fate worse than death, duh.
So that's when my to-do lists became My Everything and I started getting really intense about them. They were organized by date, blocks of time, and location; like, today at 12pm I'll be at the WORN office, so here's everything I need to do in that location. I even included all the non-work stuff like: Exercise. Eat. Shower. See Friends. And I would do it and check off the little box and that lizard part of my brain that needs constant validation would be temporarily satisfied I had proven my worth and could continue to exist on this dumb planet.
But NOW. I don't know!! Recently I haven't even been able to force myself to make a to-do list, and when I make them, I find I don't even look at them, I just work and work and then I'm like huh, did I do anything that I actually wrote down this morning? And it's sometimes yes but sometimes no. On Sundays I try and make a loose to-do list for the week, at least, but by Wednesday (i.e. right now) I am actually just like ready to set fire to my laptop anyway so I've completely stopped looking at it. I no longer get any satisfaction from checking off those little boxes. Obviously this could be because my job has changed so much; like, now, when I write down "deal with all emails" for a certain block of time and I do it "dealing with all emails" actually takes me about three hours and checking ONE BOX to denote THREE HOURS of work does NOTHING To satisfy my petty lizard brain. And for my freelance work, too; I'll write down "finish first draft" and seven hours will go by and it's done and I just want to be like, well, ticking a box doesn't feel as good as having a first draft to file, so fuck it.
In January Jazmine's One Big Question was all about how people get their shit done, my favorite thing to read because I'm always hoping it'll inspire some new form of intrinsic organization in my dumb dumb lizard brain, but right now I'm really stumped!! Like: how should I be organizing myself if the to-do lists aren't doing it for me anymore? Should I just get over it and embrace a more chaotic system, like, fuck it, as long as posts are going up and emails are responded to in a more or less timely fashion and pieces are getting filed, who cares what my to-do lists look like? What do YOU do to organize everything you have to do in a day? Also, who can find the most embarrassing thing in the screenshots of previous to-do lists I've posted here? "Purple mask" is pretty on-brand, I have to say.0 Comments
Scott made it home by 4:00 yesterday. He wasn't ready to go to the school at 4:50 when Cordelia wanted to leave, so I sent her off on her own. I just made her take her phone with her. She didn't want to because she hasn't got pockets in most of her clothes and hasn't started carrying a purse yet. Scott left for the school before 5:15. They came home a bit after 7:00, and Cordelia pulled up her group's PSA online to show it to me. I got the impression that they had fun making it, and they even shook their camera to try to simulate an earthquake.
In spite of the headache, I got some writing done yesterday. I've reached the point where sex is happening (and maybe shouldn't). I'm inclined to summarize it rather than detail it because I don't feel that detailing it will add anything to the story. I might be wrong, but that's the way I'm leaning. There is explicit sex in another chapter, so it's not that I don't want the story to go there if it needs to. I just don't think it does. Then I have to decide if that ends the chapter or if the other stuff I was originally intending to put in still fits there.
I still haven't completed my FATE character. At this point, I don't think it's going to happen before the game session. Maybe I can do it in between when Scott gets home and when the game starts. Of course, if this headache doesn't go away, I will probably just crawl into bed rather than playing.
My foot has been hurting more. I suspect I'm walking on it too much. Unfortunately, I can't figure out a way around that. I am getting better at using the walker. I'm hopeful that I'll do okay with that going to the mammogram appointment tomorrow.
The clinic called yesterday to confirm my appointment. I mentioned my foot, but the person I was talking to didn't think there was any way around standing on both feet for the mammogram. I guess I'll just have to be a bit obnoxious about it when I get there. They must have some sort of way to do one for people who can't stand up.
Scott's sister says she's pretty much over her stomach bug. She's back at work (she works part time for the United Way) today. That's something of a relief. I could take a cab, but it would be awkward, and the timing would be a lot less under my control. Now I just have to decide whether or not I'm up to going out to lunch with her before the appointment. It would be really nice to get out of the house, but it would also be challenging to manage it.
2. I actually woke up before my alarm this morning. Hoping this will be a trend that continues. (Though tomorrow I have to get up at six, so I kind of doubt I will wake up before the alarm then...)
3. I'm going karaoke tomorrow with my former coworker (who still works for the company, just a different store). I'm really looking forward to it! We had such a great time last time we went.
4. Someone brought in doughnuts to work today. :D (It would be nice if there were still some left tomorrow morning, since I never have time to eat before work on my early days.)