Laundry is packed and bulging.
The floor is vacuumed, the litter emptied, dishes washes, counters scrubbed, random shite mostly put away.
Sleep will happen sometime next week.
Gavin should be here soonish, I'm going to try to take him out for lunch and pay his hotel room to make up for my utter loser-ness yesterday.
Snow pants are still inexistent, and I'm leaving for a ski trip in precisely forty nine hours.
I wonder if tomorrow will get even more hectic with contract signings, there was hints to that, assuming they decide they like the Limoges idea.
My carte de sejour is still not ready, although I got to experience Paris' largest prefecture (police station) filled with far-more-interesting-than-I people at seven this morning.
Garbage has been taken out.
Oh, and the fotos have been updated from spanish evening. Here's a quick review:
The gang of us, all posturing-like.
Mila and Corinne discussing the vitues of Champagne ans Alsacien dessert wine.
Pierre has a thing for photographing piercings.
The restuvem are in the album.
I really need to do groceries.
This fast-lane stuff just ain't for me, man...
...unless maybe it involves that piano-far from last night. Maybe we'll try to go back tonight.
It's a strange place, where when a stranger walks up and begins conversation, I don't have to shy away. Where the patronne is a crotchetty old lady that everyone adores, who bitched and moaned at us and yelled everytime the door swung open, but who kissed us all goodbye when we reluctantly wandered out into the cold night.