Ehhh…
There are 23 other abbreviations for ‘Secondary address’ besides Apt. Including Unit and Ste.
From USPS publication 28 -
http://pe.usps.gov/text/pub28/28apc_003.htm
Building
BLDG
Department
DEPT
Floor
FL
Front
FRNT**
Hanger
HNGR
Key
KEY
Lobby
LBBY**
Lot
LOT
Lower
LOWR**
Office
OFC**
Penthouse
PH**
Pier
PIER
Rear
REAR**
Room
RM
Side
SIDE**
Slip
SLIP
Space
SPC
Stop
STOP
Suite
STE
Trailer
TRLR
Unit
UNIT
Upper
Your mother in law has a messiah complex. Tell her to go fuck herself.
Guys who jump up on the go-go bar stage, try to dance, and then drop their drawers.
Yankees live in apartments. Southerners live in condos. People out west live in town houses.
Hope that clears it all up.
You and your MIL sound like you think nursing is a religious vocation. Nurses don’t have to take vows of poverty, chastity and eternal obedience to their jobs. People’s circumstances can and do change in life. Nursing is a tough and demanding occupation, and sometimes people change their minds and take a different path, when they didn’t even see it coming.
It used to be that if a female nursing student got married she had to quit school. That surely, at the time, kept a lot of women out of nursing. Hell, my mother was the first woman in her nursing school who was allowed to remain, after marrying my father. If she had not had the choice, I might not be here.
Adults who tell us we must do something “for the sake of the children”.
I have been getting a flyer in the mail just about every day for the past week, urging me to vote for a tax assessment to fix the roads in our township.
This is the same assessment I’ve been supporting for years, and which gets voted down regularly by crabby stay-at-home anti-tax farts. This time out the emphasis from pro-assessment forces is Keep Our Families Safe, and the flyers show an attentive Mom gazing watchfully in the rear-view mirror at widdle child in the back seat (hopefully Mom is sparing a moment or two to look at the road in front of her).
I’m tempted to vote No this time just to watch Mom hit a giant pothole and have Junior bounce through the roof.
My nephew was killed by pothole. Its no laughing matter.
My nephew was killed by slipping on a banana peel and drowning in a cream-pie factory’s vat.
It was no laughing matter.
If there was a “like” button I would use it for this post. Since there isn’t I’ll just say “I like this post” 
People in stores and restaurants that are overly talkative. Gab, gab, gab. People who chew gum. Mentally, the sound I hear is GUM GUM GUM!
For me, male whining sounds even worse in a Canadian accent.
It was July 1. He’s from Michigan.
Ignorance fought.
All upper Midwest and more north sounds worse, then.
But if we don’t chew gum, Singapore wins.
No, Slithy. My Michigan remark was a snarkish WAG.
People at work who Can’t. Stop. Asking. Questions.
You know the type: every damn time somebody gives a presentation, this perky, overachieving person has “just a quick question.” Which morphs into them asking more questions when the answer isn’t what they were looking for (or even when it is sometimes).
The worst is when the meeting is scheduled to end at a particular time (say, 10 a.m.) At 9:55, the presenter asks if there are any questions, everybody else prays there aren’t, and Mr./Ms. “just one more question” has–you guessed it–one more question. And the meeting doesn’t get out until 10:15, or longer.
For whatever strange reason, almost all these people I’ve encountered have been software QA engineers. There must be a gene that selects for annoying question-asking in some subset of their number.
Those who practice political correctness.
People who use their cell phone in lines at stores. Cell phones in inappropriate places, like bookstores, or in the bathroom. People who stare at their phones while at restaurants instead of paying attention to the people they are out with.
Men who use the handicap-accessible restroom stall for no reason other than they like it.
Supermarket check outs; those fucking halfwits who take an age to pack up their pathetic purchases, standing around for a minute trying to remember what they’ve forgotten, turns out they have to pay, then they don’t know what pocket their purse is in, then they can’t find the right card, then they take another minute to remember the PIN, then they can’t find their glasses so they can enter the PIN before they forget it … and so it goes, on and fucking on and fucking on. The woman this morning almost get a 4 pack of tinned tuna right up her estuary. Maybe it’s HRT or something.