Sorry for the lapse, folks. I've been super-busy with...CAMP. Bug juice, dodgeball, "murphys" (the inexplicable camp name for a bathroom/lavatory/loo/w.c.), etc. You know...this is the sort of experience I never would have appreciated as a child. Now, I'm the one shouting loudest for another round of "Three Short-necked Buzzards".

And - I hate to toot my own horn here- but last week I won the Camp Counselor of the Week award.

It's a major award.

Seriously. The certificate is printed in color. I'm hanging it on the fridge.

Here's one for my physics buds.

How does it feel? To be on your own? With no direction home? A complete unknown?

LIKE A ROLLING STONE

Yup, the doctor called and the verdict is in. She says I've got extensive cholelithiasis, so the gall bladder has to come out.

I told the Wobbler yesterday morning, and then we went out dancing last night with a bevy of YMCA camp counselors. (All you can imagine and more.) When we were driving home, the Wobbler asks, "Why will the surgery cost so much?"

I was confused. "I'm not sure how much it will cost, but I have insurance."

"But you said it was expensive," she replied.

I have expensive gall stones, baby.

EVERYBODY MUST GET STONED

Well, in health news, there is a distinct possibility that your international woman of mystery has GALL STONES.

My good doctor suspects that bits of grody-ness have clumped and are currently obstructing the flow of bile in my gall bladder, thereby explaining my VICIOUS TEMPER. I've had an abdominal ultrasound, and I eagerly await results.

Oh, the gall of these stones!

(Heh, heh. You all next.)

P.S. I have assured my dear Boris that gall stones are both SEXY and NOT CATCHING. Please do not suggest otherwise!

A shout out to Boris who is up late for the upteenth night in a row, wooing his mistress, "Hot Plasma" (i.e. his doctoral thesis).

And in Recreation news, I spent the afternoon with the Wobbler and her carpenter fiance in their totally bitchin' pool.

This coming week, I'm getting paid to go to the zoo!

Life would be pretty sweet, if my boyfriend weren't banging (out his thesis) without me.

Look what Boris bought at the Asian grocery:

So what does "Petard Creme" taste like? Ummmm...ass, actually.

Further proof that God is American:















Red, White, and Blue Sky
Credit & Copyright: Chris Schur

'Course, it might be proof that God is French. Or British. Or Guadalopean.

HAPPY 4th OF JULY, GUADALOUPE!