![]() ![]() Any dispute related to privacy is subject to the Terms of Use and this Policy, including limitations on liability. Definitions not explicitly defined herein shall retain the meaning as prescribed in the Terms of Use. ![]() This Policy is incorporated into our Terms of Use. (DBA “NEOGOV”), including our related brands, ,, , and our mobile app(s) (collectively referred to as the “Services”), or affiliated companies (collectively referred to herein as “Governmentjobs”, "Schooljobs", “NEOGOV”, “NEOED”, “we”, “us”, or “our”).īy using any part of the Services you agree that you have read this policy, your personal data will be processed as described herein, and you agree to be bound by this Policy. This Policy applies to personal data we collect or use, and applications owned or controlled by, Inc. Getting married? Start and end your wedding planning journey with Philadelphia Weddings' guide to the best wedding vendors in the city.The purpose of this Privacy Policy (the “Policy”) is to describe how we collect, use, store, protect, and disclose personal data online and offline either via our websites or related applications. Now I kiss him softly on the cheek before I leave, and he mumbles “I love you.” And then I sprint out the door, because I’m running late.ĭo you and your significant other get along in the morning? How do you make it work when one of you is a morning person and the other is not? Share your secrets in the comments! “I mean, I love you, and I appreciate you, but we … need to end this.”Īnd that was that. One morning, during a particularly testy car ride, I cracked. Something had to change, and we both knew it. Our mornings were devolving into stupid arguments. Aren’t we supposed to be a team? I pout and think to myself that if we ever turn to a life of crime, he’s most definitely not going to be allowed to drive the getaway car. “I’m not driving like a maniac because you can’t ever be on time,” he says. I sit in the passenger seat, secretly wishing that I was behind the wheel because, unbeknownst to J., I usually drive approximately 70 miles an hour down our sleepy street to make it to the train on time. And the drive to the train doesn’t get any better, either. “What do I think? I think that you need to go.” “Your train is leaving in ten minutes, you know.” “If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to miss your train and then you’re going to be late for work.” “You do realize that you’ve been awake for ten minutes and have nothing to show for it, right?” He’s taken to giving me countdowns and reports on my progress. doesn’t work like this, which is probably why it panics him when I’m standing in my closet in a skirt and a bra, staring blankly at my clothes when my train leaves in twenty minutes. The way I get ready is similar to the way I used to go about writing papers in college: procrastination followed by a panic-driven burst of productivity. the other morning when I freaked out and begged him to just go back to bed. And that’s exactly what I was trying to explain to J. But, still, even in the thick of summer’s swelter, he sets his alarm clock every morning, perfectly content to wake up and serve as my human alarm clock and, even better, to drive me to the train station. But, as a teacher, he’s got summers off - which means he’s free to sleep in. Then he grabs my arms, heaves me to a standing position, and half-guides, half-pushes me to the bathroom by my shoulders. At 6:55, he rips the covers off and yanks at my ankles, pulling my legs off the bed. We settle on three, though we both know that three really means ten. I tug them back, and plead for ten more minutes. A few minutes later, J., who’s already been up for at least a half an hour and is shaving in the bathroom, shuts off the alarm for good. My alarm clock goes off, a particularly annoying staccato beep. Every morning at precisely 6:35am, our ritual begins. ![]()
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