Sorry for my scarcity yesterday. And apologies in advance to whoever might encounter me later in the day. Feel free to wrestle the dagger or hanging rope out of my hands; reader, I will be doing my taxes. Good thing it’s St. Patrick’s Day; I suspect I’ll need a drink before the day is over.
So it seems as good a time as ever to mop up some puddles.
Dorothy, I got the quarter. Yours will be en route by end of business today.
After a year here, I’m still finding gems about this place, and I suspect I’ll be doing so for years to come. And while I’ve exited I-75 at Big Beaver Road dozens of times — it’s home to the region’s hoit-to-the-toitiest mall — I never noticed the exit number. Of course, others have. And have made an entrepreneurial enterprise out of it. That’s good, because soon there won’t be any other jobs here.
J.C., who taught me the Internet, learns one of its earliest lessons: Never correct another person’s grammar.
I may be checking back in today. And now, to screw my courage to the sticking place…