...Who made up all the rules/ We follow them like fools/ Believe them to be true/ Don't care to think them through....
A true mother-daughter day should, and did, include lunch, a manicure, and shoe shopping. I narrowly escaped matching mother-daughter shoes. Yes, I made Alaina put the miniature stilettos back on the shelf.
My sister chooses the best of gifts, and this year's present was no exception. Body butter (yum!) and a bestselling book on punctuation. Love it!
Belle de Jour, the (possibly fictional)London call-girl turned blogger turned contracted author, has finished her book, and is now crossing i's and dotting t's. Or the reverse, if you prefer.
Diablo Cody is working on a screenplay, temping a "straight" job, and obviously has more time than she needs, as she critiques majorly mindless entertainment. Everybody needs somebody to trash.
The Political Animal I forgive for trashing Willie Don, whom I adore. Because I also adore The Animal. I forgive the former mayor, in his possible decrepit senility, his absurd remarks. And yet, I must agree with his earlier non-politic sentiment that if you must work in food service before learning English, for gods' sake, stay in the kitchen.
Emily Flake trashes adulthood, which really does suck, actually.
Gadi Dechter, whom I would love for his name even if he couldn't write, reviews Rogue Warriors, a book that trashes the war in Iraq.
Could I be later on the May/June issue of Pen In Hand? I suppose if I fail to get it out in July, I will truly be excruciatingly late, but I'm still feeling guilty. I have no idea why I thought being editor of the Maryland Writers Association's -bi? semi? semi, I think- monthly newsletter, but it's currently a source of stress and misery, mostly.
I shouldn't complain. Other people have problems much greater than mine. Imagine Tim, of The Pain- When Will It End? What a sad little message. There, there, Tim- we'll access your archives. I'm particularly fond of your greeting cards. (Buy the book. Buy the book. Buy the book.)
I am struck motionless suddenly with missing Rufus, gone now four years. I held him, tipped my head to the sky and howled his spirit across as he died in my arms. I was hoarse for two days. This brought on, I think, by last night's news image of a former movie Tarzan in a polo shirt smeared with red-brown stains, in tears over the double loss of his beloved pet tiger.
I need to either grow some skin or take up drinking.