My mother came for Thanksgiving. She finally left, this morningDon't get me wrong, I love my mom, but I'm kind of busy these days, and I cannot just drop everything when she calls me to be gleeful over the sight of George Washington's wooden teeth. Note to self: mother + Smithsonian = dangerous
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Also, I need to talk to you tomorrow morning-- It's nothing bad, just a thing I keep forgetting to ask you. I think you'll like it, actually.
And how do you feel about Pat Benetar. I think a musical compromise might be in order.
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You haven't heard Carol gripe about my Pat Benetar kicks? Benetar rocks.
And you know where I sit, so I should be easy to find. Everything OK?
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I haven't. But Pat Benetar we can agree on, provided you never mention how old you were the first time you heard her.
Everything's fine. Now go to bed, I'll be in by six again and you make a damn good cup of coffee.
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I can't tell you, because I honestly don't remember. Frightfully small, I'm sure.
I can't. My roommate is ranting about Egyptian archaeological policy again. One of these days I need to find out just what her problem is. Fear not, you'll still get your coffee. I've heard stories about when you don't get caffeine.
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See, 'frightfully small' is one of those things that you shouldn't say to me. You're too damn young.
Egyptian archaeological policy? Do I want to know?
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And not my fault, really, the age thing. The harder I try to look older, the younger I come off. So I gave up.
And it's something to do with incompetent dig managers and the retribution of Isis. I don't understand it, so I really can't explain. But it's rather funny to witness.
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Hey, remind me tomorrow that I have a question for you to pass along about Bast.
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And thank god. She stopped. I think.
If I didn't fear the consequences I'd ask her what this is all about.
I'll bring my Benetar CD tomorrow. You'll regret mentioning her in about five seconds.
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