Having a subscription to Us Weekly has it benefits. I recently won a Starbucks card at work, for instance, after I entered a competition in which one had to identify a handful of famous people's children from pictures cut out of magazines. I got 'em all---Suri Cruise, Apple Paltrow, even Liam Spelling, if you can believe it---except for one elusive celebrity spawn, who turned out to be the daughter of one of the members of Wilson Phillips, which was a little esoteric, if you ask me, because who listens to Wilson Phillips anymore?

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Something is happening to me. Correction: something has happened to me. Two years ago, I distinctly remember feeling utter revulsion at the thought of owning a house. I believe I may have recoiled at the mere mention of ever having a mortgage. If you owned a house, I thought, you couldn't do anything: all your money went to roof repairs and broken plumbing and god forbid you ever wanted to just pick up and go traveling for six months and start all over again somewhere else when you were done. You couldn't.

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So do you ever do this thing where you picture something---a place, a person---for a really long time before you see it in real life, and then the time comes where you do see it in real life, and when you do, it's nothing at all like you thought you it was going to be?

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Yesterday might have been one of the most awful days ever, at least if we're measuring the quality of a day in terms of how one feels physically, because yesterday I felt as though a steam roller had scooped me up and run me over. Twice. 

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My brain is stuffed with cotton wool. Seriously, it's not funny; which one of you jokers did this?

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Hi! Are you from a country that isn't America, but also isn't England, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, or pretty much any other country where English is the first language? If so, do you live in America (or Canada)? Do you have a blog? Could you please email me if you meet all of these criteria?

I promise it's not as mysterious as it sounds. I mean, I'm not, like, going to ask to see your Green Card or anything; I just need to ask you something. All will be revealed, I promise. Leave the briefcase on the bench. The red bird flies at midnight.

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Is there anything more soul-destroying than looking for a lost contact lens? If there is, I'd like to hear about it. Because when you're looking for a lost contact lens, you see, not only are you crawling about on your hands and knees, heart pounding because, oh my god, you've just dropped four hundred bucks---in tiny clear plastic disc form---somewhere in the (suddenly) vast expanse of your living room, but you're also forced to confront, up close and personal, WITH A FLASHLIGHT EVEN, just how disgustingly unclean your apartment is.

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In the sleepy English village where I went to boarding school for seven years, there was a row of shops that we could walk to---at first just on Saturday mornings and then, as we grew older and earned our independence, on Saturday mornings and Tuesday afternoons (provided we were wearing our blue and gold school blazers---buttoned all the way up!---and traveling in a group of three or more. Oh, you wish I were kidding, but I'm not.)

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First of all, did you see The Bachelor: Where Are They Now? on ABC last night?

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(This follows on from Twelve & Thirteen, and before that, Eleven, and before that, Seven Through Ten and, before that, Zero Through Six)

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