Happiness is a warm sequin

So I’m sitting here wearing my cashmere sweater.

It’s kind of like a Bucket List thing, this sweater purchase. While I have no interest whatsoever in actually seeing the movie – as Roger Ebert put it, wouldn’t it be nice if just for once, a movie opened with a white character extolling the virtues of Morgan Freeman? – I have always been kind of sympathetic to the general idea.

I suppose it involves some misdirected wedding-planning instincts, too; I can’t have the poufy ivory dress with the rosebud-embroidered bodice (mental pattern borrowed liberally from Catherine Cookson novels), so the ridiculously expensive sweater is like the prize for growing out of it already. You may not have a man, self, but by God you are a successful, sophisticated woman! More

The unbearable lightness of being green

Public-service announcement: I’m still feeling a little badly over that Kalan Porter gag from last week – not the others, so much; it’s hard to envision anything that could get me worked up over for instance JayDee. Were they to invent a Preppy Minivan-Riding Idol Winner repellent spray, I’d keep an impressive stock in the hall closet at all times, believe you me.

Kalan, on the other hand…well, Hurray is still on the iPod rotation, lo these many weeks later. My attitude toward music is much the same as toward books; the ones that find a perfectly matching slot in my psyche, they’re the only ones I keep. So I guess I still do care…just enough to wonder whether what might be, already has been or not.

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In other news: I never did find that good book. Although LaVyrle Spencer will do quite nicely for brain candy, thanks, and That Camden Summer edges up to the point where I muse about it being retold by someone who could do the characters real justice.

Still, though…if there’s anything we have around here, it’s standards. ‘Up with edification’, this is our motto at Shoe Central; primarily because we have spent the past month’s Net time immersed in the results of laxity in this vital area. To wit: the decision by Marvel Comics to divorce Spider-Man. More

Oh, Sunday, Sunday how could you leave and not take me…

I’ve clearly been hanging around the sports sites too long. Not only am I thinking about trivia, it’s starting to arrange itself in bulleted lists:

–Football watch: 9-1, baby. The Packers cemented themselves as the Official Feel-Good Story of the 07-08 NFL season by dispatching the Carolina Panthers handily, if not exactly tidily, 31-17. By the time they hit Dallas in two weeks the sheer plucky adorableness buildup is going to blow the Cowboys off the field.
In my pleasantest fantasies, the victory over Terrell ‘C’mon, He Hasn’t Danced on the Star in Almost Two Seasons Now!’ Owens et al. leads to Brett Favre sweeping into the Super Bowl on a white charger and striking a victory for truth, sportsmanship and general niceness everywhere. Or if that doesn’t work, I’ll accept a chop block to Randy-freakin-Moss’ knees, you capice? More

Rah! rah!

OK, so I’m a little late to the 2007-8 NFL football season.

This isn’t news. I am late to any number of things, most recently all the stuff I promised Shoemom I’d have done before she returned from her weekender in New York. Funny, how dishes escape your consciousness, just sitting in the sink like that – I mean, they just look like that’s where they’re supposed to be, y’know?
Besides, years of soap commercials have convinced me that if they were really suffering they’d be emitting little ceramic cries of horror: “Mold! mold! aiiiiieeee!” But no, ours just stack themselves neatly, seeming as content as clams to be covered in, well, clams and stuff. I do not wish to blame the victim at any time, but there is clearly a lack of initiative in the case. I blame dependence on the godlike Mr. Clean, or possibly that goofy lady who gave Palmolive uppity notions.

…er, yes, I have spent the last few days alone except for a couple cats, why do you ask?

Thus it was, as a matter of fact, that my long-dormant instinct for American football was as recently revived – yeah, it was still talking to the TV, but at least the subjects were human. More or less. Jury’s still out on a few offensive tackles, also John Madden, whom I suspect Gund of replacing with a stuffed animatronic replica some years ago. More