Happy St. Paddy's Day, if you celebrate that type of thing. I am not Irish, but I do enjoy me some Guinness and Jameson's (HR's first name was thisclose to being Jameson - no relation. Or was it?) so I'll celebrate in my own way, in the comfort of my abode. In Boston it's St. Patrick's every day anyway, so I exercise my option to nip out to the pub, um, any other time of year. I get puked on enough at home.
That last part was an exaggeration for (questionable) comic effect - HR has never been a particularly spit-uppy sort. But being vommed on even once is enough, don't you think? The point is, I'm over this holiday.
What I am not over? The 60 degree weather that's supposed to happen. Bring it bring it bring it. And bring on our quickly approaching Florida jaunt, which begins two weeks from tomorrow. How lucky am I? That is not a rhetorical question. The answer is, extremely.
So you know I'm firmly on the Nicki Minaj love train. Her big single gives me chills every time I hear it. I do think it could use at least one more verse after Dreezy's, but what do I know, I'm not a member of the Young Money Militia. Yet. But it name checks David Ortiz and, like I was saying, chills. Here it is, and here's to whatever it is that makes you happy.
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