Poor Graham has a little cold and I'm feeling guilty that he may have given it to his little friend Heidi.
When I hear the words "pasta carbonara," I can't help but think of pasta with a bubbly sauce. I imagine pasta that tastes like Pop Rocks, but without the crunch.
I love things that make me happy (duh). Like this fabric, for example.
Every time I start considering putting more time/energy/money into what I wear I come across a scripture about the fashionable ways of the wicked. So I use that as an excuse to continue wearing nothing but t-shirts from high school, old jeans, and flip flops (from JCrew! I'm turning into a Zoramite!).
I want to be this woman. She's spicy, intelligent, and the wife of my favorite writing teacher. She read some of my writing once, and I'm sad to say that if the material I gave her had a body, it would be an angsty teenager's body, wrapped in used Kleenex, a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul clutched tightly in its black-nailed fist. I want to take her (Louise, not the teenager body) to lunch and learn her secrets of awesomeness.
I need these shoes:
|I'm small I know but wherever I go the book deals come all day.|
Also, last night I had a dream about an old homeroom teacher slash boy's varsity soccer coach. I was in his class in 8th grade ten years ago when Alex Bylund, the news junkie of the group, announced that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.
I'm convinced this is no longer just allergies. The pill I took three hours ago has had no effect. I believe Graham and I are suffering the effects of the same race of bug. I've discovered that flannel burp rags are a great alternative to handkerchiefs--much softer and with fun baby-themed prints to cheer me in my weakened state.
Off to eat some soup dear husband brewed for me in the microwave.