Honest to boo, I think my phone started ringing around six this evening and only just now stopped.

It never does that unless I’m buried alive in work. When I’ve got an evening free and would welcome some conversation, the phone is silent. Most evenings, I’m free. Call me! Please! Just, not tonight. Sigh.

I’d turn it off when I’m swamped, but I’ve got kids who live out of town, and an elderly mother and MIL who occasionally need me for something important. I will be here when people need me.

Absolutely.

If you’ve got an hour to spare on Tuesday at 10: a.m., come on over to Fausta’s Podcast. I’ll be there, trying to pretend I’m as smart as Fausta and Siggy. Call in. Comment.

There’s the phone again. Honestly. Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring. . .

(Don’t watch the video if dreadful songs tend to haunt you play over and over in your head until you scream for mercy. It’s actually quite a silly video. And you’ll be haunted. Forever. There’s a flash version that cracks me up, but it’s quite dreadful, really, and if you ever saw it, you’d wonder if I really belonged on the nursing home porch, rocking, rocking, rocking away, and think that perhaps I would be better served living in Dr. Yamamoto’s Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse. (Bonus points if you know the source.)