I am having a Judy Blume moment. Day slash week slash life. I must, I must, I must increase pie crust. I don’t know—it was either that or fixed investment discretionary trust, and right about now I’m all about à la mode and Blubber.
It's a good thing I've always identified with Tiger Eyes and not, say, The Bell Jar.
On Friday I fell down. Hard. And not in a Michael Douglas circa 1993 kind of way, although I feel that coming on, too. No, I fell down wearing a cute little black Audrey Hepburn dress and tights with a mere hint of sparkle, boots with a—gasp!—2.5” heel. I was walking past the bank of elevators at work feeling just a little bit frisky because I swear the UPS guy checked me out when suddenly That Fucking Bitch-hole The Universe stuck out her foot and tripped me. On nothing. Total yard sale, and I cannot be completely sure that the elevator doors had already closed so that the UPS man did not witness my shame, or that my dress was not flipped up over my fat head. Pride go-eth and all that ye olde fuckery. Subsequently I spent the weekend looking as if I had attempted suicide with the flat end of a butter knife, a cry for help, perhaps, more than any real attempt to end it all. And yes, I know suicide is not funny but neither is 3 straight weeks of rain or the fact that Bryan has always said I sound like The Gestapo in those boots anyway. Also not funny? Apparently the underside of a wrist can, in fact, look very old.
T.S. Eliot was oh-so wrong. April is cake compared to January, and February is downright diabolical.
From the (Not So F)oxymoron,