I’m trying to figure out if it’s the shoe repair industry (which does entail chemicals that addle one’s brains) or Williamsblergh, but none of the four local cobblers I’ve used over the last five years have ever had my shoes ready when they’ve said they would, not even when I called ahead and they said over the phone that, Yes, of course they are ready, yes, miss, yes, come over now.
Today, upon learning once again that, no, my Rachel Comey oxfords were not ready, I got so frosty–green eyes glowing wickedly, double Ds thrust forward (this terrifies most men), lips pressed together with a Tony Soprano-wait-’em-out firmness–that my current shoe repair fellow nervously halved what I owed him. (It was like that time Obi-Wan Kenobi hypnotized the storm trooper into ignoring C3PO and R2D2. Me: You will knock 50 percent off. Him: I will knock 50 percent off.) I’d feel bad except that I’m a big believer in “Whatever your job is, do it well.” Which is to say: “You snooze, I don’t pay full prize for my shoes.” I’m left wondering, though: How is this a good business practice for him? It’s noteworthy that these places go under with a suspicious regularity. Are they drug fronts? Mafia lairs? Whatever, man. I just want my kicks.
The weather has been cold, damp, interminably British. I inadvertently cut off most of my mermaid hair in what I’m calling the retrograde special. And I really, really hate Hallmark holidays. Under the auspices of “if you can’t saying anything nice,” it’s seemed wisest to keep mum. (Pun intended, obviously.) But head honcho Jupiter finally went direct again, I’m starting to see how my new cut can reference Debbie Harry and Veronica Lake, and the weather today was gorgeous–strong sunshine, gentle warmth. I actually dared venture to the greenmarket, where I found the loveliest things: skate, farm-fresh eggs, chives with pretty purple buds, red and green shell-leafed lettuces, ramps, sheep milk yogurt, you name it. Best of all, most everyone I love seemed happy, which made this extroverted introvert happy. So I’ve decided to officially emerge from my shell. On this mild May evening, I send you lilacs from my bedside table, the snuggle of a certain permakitten, and the peach and violet sunset gracing everyone smart enough to look. In the immortal words of Mr. O’Shea Jackson, “Today was a good day.”
As of last evening, Donald Trump is the presumptive Republican nominee for U.S. president, which means that all the dystopias are real and that the hatred lurking in our increasingly bifurcated country is blowing up hard. On the other hand, five planets are in retrograde, which happens approximately once a decade. I keep telling myself that with so much astrological mayhem afoot, we’re essentially inhabiting Bizarro World right now. That, come November, everything will smooth out and the Orange Man will die on the vine.
I’m trying to figure out if it’s the shoe repair industry (which does entail chemicals that addle one’s brains) or Williamsblergh, but none of the four local cobblers I’ve used over the last five years have ever had my shoes ready when they’ve said they would, not even when I called ahead and they said over the phone that, Yes, of course they are ready, yes, miss, yes, come over now.
(It was like that time Obi-Wan Kenobi hypnotized the storm trooper into ignoring C3PO and R2D2. Me: You will knock 50 percent off. Him: I will knock 50 percent off.) I’d feel bad except that I’m a big believer in “Whatever your job is, do it well.” Which is to say: “You snooze, I don’t pay full prize for my shoes.” I’m left wondering, though: How is this a good business practice for him? It’s noteworthy that these places go under with a suspicious regularity. Are they drug fronts? Mafia lairs? Whatever, man. I just want my kicks.
The weather has been cold, damp, interminably British. I inadvertently cut off most of my mermaid hair in what I’m calling the retrograde special. And I really, really hate Hallmark holidays. Under the auspices of “if you can’t saying anything nice,” it’s seemed wisest to keep mum. (Pun intended, obviously.) But head honcho Jupiter finally went direct again, I’m starting to see how my new cut can reference Debbie Harry and Veronica Lake, and the weather today was gorgeous–strong sunshine, gentle warmth. I actually dared venture to the greenmarket, where I found the loveliest things: skate, farm-fresh eggs, chives with pretty purple buds, red and green shell-leafed lettuces, ramps, sheep milk yogurt, you name it. Best of all, most everyone I love seemed happy, which made this extroverted introvert happy. So I’ve decided to officially emerge from my shell. On this mild May evening, I send you lilacs from my bedside table, the snuggle of a certain permakitten, and the peach and violet sunset gracing everyone smart enough to look. In the immortal words of Mr. O’Shea Jackson, “Today was a good day.”
As of last evening, Donald Trump is the presumptive Republican nominee for U.S. president, which means that all the dystopias are real and that the hatred lurking in our increasingly bifurcated country is blowing up hard. On the other hand, five planets are in retrograde, which happens approximately once a decade. I keep telling myself that with so much astrological mayhem afoot, we’re essentially inhabiting Bizarro World right now. That, come November, everything will smooth out and the Orange Man will die on the vine.