- I am a bit more sad about the passing of Billy Mays than I am about either Michael Jackson or Farrah Fawcett. I never wore the Farrah flip and, while I did make shallow attempts at moonwalking and crotch grabbing, Michael's music never moved me as profoundly as those long dead havemanaged to. I am an insomniac and I have fallen asleep many a night to Billy Mays peddling his OxyClean or other ingenious product. Now who do I have? The shrill early AM harpies on the home shopping channels and that creepy ShamWow guy. I have been trying to figure out which stranger's death would move me as others seem to be so affected by this week's slew of tragedy. Well, when I found out the Charlotte Bronte was dead (and her sisters!) I was absolutely stricken with grief. But that doesn't count, I was four. This was also around the time when I was informed that I could not marry Cary Grant (dead) and that Dick Van Dyke and Rob Petrie were not the same person so any delusions I harbored about him dumping Laura and Richie and running off into the ottoman tripping sunset with a certain klutzy kid. - I think I may qualify as the preppy version of a crack addict. What else would you call a person on the phone with J. Crew at 2am in search for last season's Wool-Cashmere Carrie Coat that I had in my cart but waited to pull the trigger on so some bargain shopping wench stole it out from under me. Pshaw! Size 8 or above, heather acorn, yes I am repeating the facts since I am scouring the internet for one. I know, I know, it is from last winter. I know, I know, I should have bought it but I was a bit preoccupied with life and have come late to this realization. Same goes for the Juliet midheels in bright peacock. I may just turn to [gasp] eBay. What is the world coming to? I am still not shopping but these are from last season and therefore don't count. Yes, I do realize how I sound. However, I have not been making my usual trips to the money pit that is my beloved Container Store or even Whole Foods or Sur La Table so credit should be afforded. - My birthday is in 15 days (14 July). I only know this because my mother informed me of the 16 day mark, yesterday. Meh. I don't quite care about my birthday as I should. I've never had a really good birthday, my mum never really paid any attention to it, no one ever remembers it (partially my fault, as I rarely tell friends of its existence, I don't want to, I suppose, look forward to it). I am a bit of a curmudgeon Eeyore. I just want to ski! And speak Spanish! And go to bed exhausted but full of some undoubtedly fabulous Argentinean fare. A crackling fire would be nice. It's just that, well, I thought that this year would be different. I would have been stateside for it, not a big deal but with someone I adore, and therefore infinitely better than my usual. I do wonder if this year is bound to be depressing by virtue of the fact that is adjacent to the entire heartbreak business. I hope that this won't forever be defined as the year that he and I were no longer, the year that I was crushed, the year of the big gaping hole. And here I thought that it was the Year of the Ox. Sigh. - Speaking of the zodiac, I realize that a lot of the people I tend to absolutely adore, even the bloggity people, tend to be of the water sign persuasion. True story. My mum is very big on the zodiac, I sometimes wonder if it holds any validity. There was once a study that showed the amount of sunlight and Vitamin D that a mother was exposed to directly influenced the temperament of the child in question. Kind of like Winter Birth Syndrome and schizophrenia. Well, not kind of like, exactly like, I suppose. - I hate it when the author's name is bigger than the title of the book. I just do. Even if it is V.S. Naipaul or Martin Amis or someone who likewise deserves it. - I am contemplating telling you all 100 things about me, but I've come to the conclusion that I am awfully boring. - When I see a man, or really anyone, wearing an Ed Hardy shirt the only thing I think is: self explanatory. Think about it. Man in his 40s: desperate (ahem, Jon Gosselin), in his 20s: douche, woman in her 40s: clueless. It almost makes me feel judgmental. Almost. - On to edit my pho post and wallow in gluten and lactose free pity. If you'll excuse me.
