We’re moving. In two days. To a very Wisteria Lane looking little street with mock Victorian lampposts which I think I might love. I’m not sure yet, because I’ve only seen it once. I can’t even remember what the bedrooms look like. This is important because I’ve ordered one of those super sized posturepedics and
Browsing category blogging
I should be in bed, because I’m about five miles past exhaustion. But I’m watching some sort of Fox News. Idol just went off, the remote is on the other sofa, and I’m too lazy to get up and get it. A blond and a Ben Stiller looking fellow are chatting about ‘bring your gun
I’ve lost my voice. I had it when I went to bed last night. Ask The Euro. He was getting an earful of something – I can’t remember what. It’s terrible. Like one of those really bad dreams. Where you want to scream, but can’t; and then decide well, just throw a jar of peanut
Couleur locale. N’est-ce pas? “Couleur locale has been responsible for many hasty appreciations,” Nabokov once wrote, “and local colour is not a fast colour.” What did he mean? I think it’s rather like watching The Full Monty from your sofa in West Virginia and thinking ‘That’s just so awesome.’ Then visiting a Job Centre in
Mal is long and lean and (Good grief, I sound like a George Jones song…) and makes everything look effortless. Marie is like a little Tasmanian devil. She moves faster than any non-Olympian has a right to move and she laughs the whole time she does it. Me, I just make weird faces and hurt
A friend of mine told me to go to bed an hour early. Use that time to read. It’ll help you relax. Only reading never helps me relax because I get too excited. I spent Friday afternoon at Borders. I picked up “CRANFORD” by Elizabeth Gaskell. It’s a tiny little thing and I had to
I spent all day drinking coffee and eating nothing, then came home to Burger King at midnight. I don’t know if it was the hour or the not quite food but just after I fell asleep I fell down the rabbit hole. And that’s about as close as I can come to describing the dream
We were in Iaeger at The Hollywood Dairy Bar. A diner-type joint on the shoulder of Route 52 in McDowell County, West Virginia. Pa was talking about hot dogs and how ‘you can’t beat ’em at this price’ when a red pickup drove by. “Me and him,” Pa pointed at the passing truck, “We was
I got up at 4:45 yesterday morning to go to the gym. Alyssa, my trainer, completely kicked my butt. At one point I had to take five and head to The Ladies because I thought ‘I’m either gonna pass out, or puke, and neither of those will look good on this carpet.’ I had to
I haven’t blogged much this week because the monitor makes my face hurt. I’m obliged to attach myself to it for five hours, most days, but more than that I haven’t the heart for. Sinuses are causing the left side of my face to divorce the right. I’ve grown a whole new wrinkle this month
I’ve been trying to get my head organised this week. Last night, when I slept, I could hear it beating against my pillow. I’ve spent ten hours editing photos today. My bum hurts from sitting so much. I ate an ice cream sandwich, and two eggs. I haven’t been to the gym since Monday. I
I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of elephants. Kicked in the head for good measure. And I have moths. How do you even get moths? They’re eating holes through my cashmere. Barring those smelly little balls that make your wardrobe reek of your grandmother’s mother…I have no idea how to get
