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Monday, Oh, shit -- lock up the men, it's that time of the month
I'm serious -- my pheromones go absolutely apeshit around this time. Lyndon could always tell when I was fertile because he'd suddenly have a compulsion to write erotica, among, ahem, other compulsions. The little waiter incident yesterday also makes a little more sense, now -- I mean, I'm cute and all, but I hardly fit into the current standards for beauty. The fact that he was pretty much ready to follow me home means something else was at work, apart from my scintillating personality and petal-pink complexion. Oh, dear. It's probably best that Thunder isn't in the office this week. He's Australian, you see, and I adore the accent, so things could get. . .complicated. Not to mention embarrassing. And I'm gonna be a good girl and stay far, far away from my brunch place, yes I am -- Mr. Flirty is a perfectly nice guy and doesn't need to have a hormonally overcharged customer mentally undressing him every time he walks by. Oy. . .
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Nonono
-- not THAT time, the OTHER time, the middle of the cycle where
the hormones start carbonating and the little eggies start looking
around for some action.
And since the little eggies ain't gonna get any action, barring
a miracle or a sudden disasterous fault in the local mobile switches
that absolutely require Lyndon's presence in Richardson, I'm dancing
around the house to DMB, Savage Garden (and let me tell you, THAT'S
something of a counterpoint) and Paula Cole in an attempt to burn
off some of this energy before I do somebody an injury.
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