I remember that last year the pedestrian bridge was often littered with dog poop, but it's been surprisingly clean this year (knock on wood). So it was upsetting to see that a man—an American!—appeared to be encouraging his little dog to evacuate on the bridge this evening. It's a good thing his wife came and made them move along, because on behalf of all daily bridge-crossers, I would have been forced to stab him with my pen.
Outside of the occasional motor starting in the tiny parking lot outside my classroom, we hardly even notice it's there. But today someone's car must have sprung a mighty leak, because gas—not exhaust—fumes filled our room. Latin is brain-damaging enough; I don't need a side order of toxic fumes, thanks.
Lovely Husband and Darling Daughter toted some of her friends to the pool yesterday, but L.H. has a militant disregard for SKIN CANCER, so he didn't bother to put on any sunscreen, and now he's all red. HA HA! It's my wifely prerogative to mock, didn't you know?
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