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Wednesday, Pardon me while I wipe away the drool. . . Back at work, and man am I glad about it. They keep me so damn busy that I don't really have time to think about the INS and all the hoops we need to jump through in the next few weeks. However, there's another new wrinkle in the situation -- it's that time of the month. Um, no, not my period -- the other end of the reproductive spectrum.
For those of you who are screeching, "You trollop! Here you were, whinging on and on about missing Lyndon, and now you're lusting after some actor? What kind of a wife are you?" go take a Valium, okay? This is something that occasionally happens during my fertile period, and only lasts a day or two. My adoration of the Bodacious Brit will last a lifetime, and we both know it. In fact, he has been known to enjoy this sort of thing because, after all, he gets the full benefit of the resulting amorousness. Unfortunately, he isn't here right now, so I'm left to my own devices, so to speak. (No, I don't really use devices -- get your minds out the the gutter, sweeties, there's hardly enough room for mine as it is). But I do have to wonder -- is this what it's like for guys all the time, this ever-present miasma of sexual need? And if it is, how the heck can you drive, button your shirts or operate heavy machinery without losing a limb? Oh, well. At least I don't have to drive until tomorrow. And in the meantime, I'm alone with my trained and flexible imagination. Oh, Neeeeeeil. . .
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Yeah,
that one. And apparently this is going to be one of THOSE times
where the damn hormones have decided to carbonate like Dom Perignon.
I first noticed it after watching the tail end of some English movie
starring Juliet Stevenson, Joanne Whaley-Kilmer and 
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