1) A while ago, I wrote this brief guide to Charleston for theCitizen, a cutting-edge youth culture travel site for which I fear I may not be hip enough, and which carries the following disclaimer: "If your idea of fun is eating a 12-course meal on a cruise ship, theCitizen is not for you. If you lost your wallet last summer in a complicated scam run by some junkie from Berlin, theCitizen might be for you.
I have paid an exorbitant amount of money to look like a little French boy. True, it's an improvement over the last haircut I got, which was sort of verging on Lesbian Cruise Ship Director, but still....I wish someone had told the stylist that Frere Jacques wasn't exactly the look I was going for.
Damn, you CANNOT find a strudel in this town. Trust me, I looked all day yesterday---in four different supermarkets, no less!---and I couldn't find a strudel anywhere. Then someone told me about a German bakery, but by then it was too late and I'd already bought half a dozen apple Danishes (Danishi? Dani?) and cut them into slices to make a faux strudel, which---with much aplomb---I christened Fudel. I may also have added an umlaut. Everything is better with an umlaut.
My boyfriend is either gay or a genius. Today he went out to Target OF HIS OWN ACCORD and bought a new vaccuum. It is a very stylish apple green vaccuum that could accurately be described as the poor man's Dyson. His genius lies in the fact that when he turned it on and started hoovering a corner to see how well it worked, I immediately leapt up from the sofa, where I was reading a very important magazine, and followed him around, rubbing my hands together and pleading, "Ooh, ooh, let me have a go! Oh, go on, let me try it! Is it good?
Internet, this is an emergency. A fashion emergency, that is. My sister Susie, who lives in Singapore, is searching for a dress for her summer formal---she is 16, so this is the most important! thing! ever!---and I have volunteered to help her find one. (From 30,000 miles away, yes! Isn't that how you do your shopping?) The other day, though, she sent me an email with a few pictures of styles she thought might be cute, and I yelped. YELPED!
This is going to be a long one. I'd get a strong drink now, if I were you, and also perhaps some pita chips and some other sundry supplies to keep you going at your computer---like maybe a tent and a camping stove, since I'm not sure how long this is going to take. You might also need some flares. (The kind you have in your car for roadside emergencies, I mean, not the pants. You can bring the pants too, if you'd like, but be warned that we'll probably all make fun of you. Also, you should know that they're totally not flattering. Widens the hips, I think.)
Well, that was fun! I now have a mental image of everyone's hair, a long list for the library, and a note to myself never to say PUS or MOIST or CHUNKY again. That was my favorite part, by the way, the words people hated; Pretty Coworker Elle and I used to have a running list of The Worst Words In The World, which we kept on the back of the door in our office, and added to every day. We had WOMB and WOUND and BRUISE and WAD and PANTIES and TURGID and LUBE, and it was awesome until someone stole it!
Oh, Internet, I hardly know ye. No, seriously, I don't really know very much about you at all, and yet you know that I have a set of days of the week knickers and that I prefer to watch shows where roses are handed out at the end. I'm feeling that this relationship is a little one-sided, aren't you?
For the last eight years, Sean has hated his job. I wish I could tell you I was exaggerating about the "eight years" part, but I'm really not. He's been very good at it, of course, and has garnered all sorts of accolades and promotions, but he's hated almost every second of it. I suppose that's just what happens when you're passionate about design and photography, and you end up working in nuclear power.
Yesterday was totally going to be the BEST! DAY! EVER!