Why does no one care about the intern thing?

Amazingly happy. Still unemployed and broke, was puked on in an elevator by some effin intern (someday I will dedicate my life to ridding lovely DC of em), may be getting sick. But still...

My parents met the Boy last night and seemed to quite like him. My Mum was extra-charming even for her, although she told a lot of stories about my "colorful" Uncle B. (the survivalist that lives in the garden shed entirely decorated with porn [my Mum called it "pin-ups"] who stockpiles tinned food and guns and buries valuable metals) and acquaintences drowning in flash floods in Rock Creek Park. Dad complimented his boots, talked about early Italian music (Dad's equivelent of talking baseball, shows comfort in the situation), and was impressed that the Boy had seen Beat the Devil. Of course, I spent the evening avoiding eye contact with the Boy, because we had been groping each other in the elevator on the way down to meet them and I didn't want to jump him. He makes it so hard to get anything done that isn't him. Although tonight, we have a date for cheap Greek food and Silk Stockings, the musical with a singing, dancing Peter Lorre!

Us, you don't have a telephone, right? (I miss y'all.) And you may not thank me for this, but I am attempting to convince the Boy that he wants to come up and meet you. I think he will, which is good because after the parents, you are the ones whose opinions I care about.

Am mailing stockings, Heath bars, ska compilation, and one special suprise up to Halifax once the post office opens up again.