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Monday, June 21, 2004

Shangrila, the New Perfume by Calvin Klein

In some ways my life is best characterized as a series of blazing obsessions, kindling one after another in the manner of sentry lights zipping from Gondor to Rohan. Having been aware of this minor peculiarity for some time, I was gently led to muse upon it again while examining various transportation options to North Carolina. Apparently they have fabulous furniture outlets there...

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Yes, Dear Readers, you who have given me succour in my time of woe, to you I dedicate my wild yawp that tonight rings over the slated roofs of my new home.


That's right. I have a house.

The Day Dawns Grey and Hazy, and I Resist the Urge to be Melodramatic

I think the title says it all, really. Today is bidding day. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Friday, June 11, 2004

All I Want for Christmas

I've given up on the pony. Posted by Hello

Thursday, June 10, 2004

I Dub Thee Gallimaufry

First of all, annual congratulations are in order for Jonathan, first of the tens (by which I mean the micro-clique in high school loosely bound together by the virtue of being born on the tenth day of the month) and harbinger of the ripe old age of twenty four which I most decidedly do not want to be this year. Twenty-four is the year that all memebers of my family lose their keen, youthful sense of humor and degenerate into senility and dad jokes. Really. I swear.

In other news, Dante is getting a bath tonight. My sense of smell may have been dulled by the dreaded Summer Cold, but there's definitely a whiff of Eau de Something I Shouldn't Have Rolled In. It makes him decidedly less cuddly.

And finally, I am a girl in love. I can't sleep at night. I daydream. I string endless google searches for any glimpse, any sliver of information on my beloved. I price chandeliers and countertops. I have Mentionitis. I can only hope (pray, cajole, threaten, blackmail, kill, steal, scream) that one, hot summer night (Tuesday to be precise) the seller will walk away with big, bulging sacks (or maybe a briefcase, I'm not picky) of my father's money, and that precious little townhouse on Beekman Place will be mine, all mine...

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Love Like It's Never Going to Hurt...

Oh Beekman Place, you're going to break my heart again, aren't you?

In the Land of the Blind, the Deaf Man is... umm... Still Deaf?

Sometimes there are things, things that fill me with such irrepressible joy that I feel I must share them with someone or burst into a hundred happy pieces. By some bizarre twist of fate, these are usually the things that cause otherwise amiable and sympathetic friends to say disparaging, flint-hearted things that I'm sure they later come to regret. So in the interests of Friendship, I post this here on my blog, flinging it out to the wide universe in the hopes that it will strike as much mirth from someone else's soul as it did mine:

E.B. White, author of The Trumpet of the Swan (and the less famous, lesser work Charlotte's Web) is the White in Strunk and White of Strunk and White's The Elements of Style.

Oh happy day! It takes me back to the summers I read that book until the glue peeled back from the binding and the cover was eaten by the dog and...

Monday, June 07, 2004

A good parody cures all ills.

(link via Kim)

Friday, June 04, 2004

I Return from Battle, but with Lingering Scars

In the heady days of my school-going youth, sickness was a welcome break from the distressing regularity of good health. By sickness, however, I mean a light malaise, a gentle pulse of a headache, a delicate temperature and a rosy flush to the cheeks-- just enough visible symptoms to allow for the necessity of convalescing at home and being coddled by my mother (who, despite other culinary faliures, makes a magnificent chicken soup). Recently, those (dare I say it?) girl-who-cried-wolf days have come to haunt me with a most ungentlemanly vengence. Pestilence (least attractive of the Four Horsemen, if you ask me) has come for his due. O the wracking coughs! O the fevered brow! O the truly, truly awful Campbell's chicken noodle soup!

I have been laid low, Dear Reader. I have been humbled.

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