Bargains!

Anthropologie is having a sale. This means that the rug I scrolled past and said, "Oh. That's pretty." is a mere $3,599.99, down from $5,998.00

Oh, Anthropologie. You're hilarious.

Sunday afternoon

On Sunday afternoon I put on a dress and went to tea at the estimable Ms. Stephan's home, which seemed like a highly civilized sort of thing to do, not least because she has several pianos and things are automatically made fancier by their mere proximity. We drank from dainty cups and ate wee homemade cupcakes.

I understand, of course, that this is not everyone's idea of a well-spent Sunday. Indeed, on my way, while stopped at a red light, I watched a young man emerge from a parked car wearing only work boots and very snug briefs, the camouflage print of which disguised exactly nothing. "Huh." I thought, because I have lived here a very long time and it takes more than that to rattle me. Then he turned around and I discovered that the print of the briefs was not their most compelling feature. And I laughed.

Where exactly does one go in nothing but ass-less underwear of a rainy Sunday? I could not say, but I am guessing it wasn't a tea party.

Coin flipping

This week, they have been painting upstairs and the fumes seep down into my apartment to a shocking degree. In order to mitigate the headache/nausea combo that greets me the moment I walk in the door at the end of the day, I have been leaving all my windows wide open all day. I was more than usually dismayed, therefore, when I woke to see a gaggle of workmen scrambling up to the roof directly across the street this morning. All of them went up except for the one guy who was left on the street to attend to the bubbling vat of tar outside my window.

RTS

I frequently get mail for people who do not live in my apartment. At least, I've never seen them. If they are there, they owe me a great deal of rent. My assumption is that they used to live there and their correspondents are very slow to get the news of their relocation.

Yesterday, however, I had a new postal experience. Among my many catalogues was one piece of real mail. I was briefly excited thinking that someone had written me a letter (you know how I enjoy that), but when I looked closer, it proved to be a letter that had been mailed to New Orleans two weeks ago and returned as undeliverable. The sticker says: Return to sender. No such street. (Deeply disappointing, incidentally, because it was addressed to a bookstore on Pirates Alley, a street I very much wish did exist.)

Here's the thing though. This note to this possibly fictional bookstore on this imaginary New Orleans street was not sent by me. And yet, it has been returned to me--understandably, since the return address in the corner is definitely mine.

We must conclude that somewhere in the metropolis is a person who not only does not know the addresses of his would-be correspondent, but is equally misinformed about his own address. A sad state of affairs. Perhaps this person should restrict himself to phone calls.

Quit it

Insects: Stop biting me. For real. I'm sick of it.
I'm just sitting here at work minding my own business. If you need to bite someone's elbow, bite your own damn elbow.