Laying Waste My Powers
When I think of it, I like to log on to my own blog to check the Quote of the Day, and I noticed today's is Henry David Thoreau's "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
I'd like to confess here that last night I went out to get a good kitchen knife, and instead bought a bottle of Un Jardin Sur Nil. I can't decide whether this is glamorous or quietly desperate.
In other weekend news, the Comrade is in the process of moving offices from the Flatiron District to New Jersey, so this Saturday finds me alone again, naturally. I thought I'd cook us up some lamb tonight, but the Fresh Direct order just came, and when I unpacked the French-cut chops I'd ordered, I was dismayed to find that they are just about the right size for Saturday-night dinner in a dollhouse. It's one of those moments when I realize my hausfrau drag is just that. Speaking of drag, I guess I'll have to venture out into Brooklyn for more lamb.
Requiem for a Dream was on IFC last night; I may be the last person in the Western Hemisphere to see it, but doubtless not the first to want to promptly stick her head in an oven after the credits rolled. I got into bed where the Comrade had fallen asleep listening to our Sharper Image white-noise machine and cried.
Trivially speaking, unless I miss my guess, the Comrade and I looked at a place in the very building on Brightwater Court where poor Sara Goldfarb lived. The apartment was a windowless Skinner box, shared by a Russian lady (who must have sold cosmetics, judging from the army of potions) and her pretty little pigtailed daughter. If it hadn't looked on an alley we might have wound up sleeping there every night, in a tunnel of artificial wind.
I'd like to confess here that last night I went out to get a good kitchen knife, and instead bought a bottle of Un Jardin Sur Nil. I can't decide whether this is glamorous or quietly desperate.
In other weekend news, the Comrade is in the process of moving offices from the Flatiron District to New Jersey, so this Saturday finds me alone again, naturally. I thought I'd cook us up some lamb tonight, but the Fresh Direct order just came, and when I unpacked the French-cut chops I'd ordered, I was dismayed to find that they are just about the right size for Saturday-night dinner in a dollhouse. It's one of those moments when I realize my hausfrau drag is just that. Speaking of drag, I guess I'll have to venture out into Brooklyn for more lamb.
Requiem for a Dream was on IFC last night; I may be the last person in the Western Hemisphere to see it, but doubtless not the first to want to promptly stick her head in an oven after the credits rolled. I got into bed where the Comrade had fallen asleep listening to our Sharper Image white-noise machine and cried.
Trivially speaking, unless I miss my guess, the Comrade and I looked at a place in the very building on Brightwater Court where poor Sara Goldfarb lived. The apartment was a windowless Skinner box, shared by a Russian lady (who must have sold cosmetics, judging from the army of potions) and her pretty little pigtailed daughter. If it hadn't looked on an alley we might have wound up sleeping there every night, in a tunnel of artificial wind.
posted by frostine | 12:37 PM
1 Comments:
Very interesting article on perfume...I didn't read all of it though (a bit long to read on the screen) but still very interesting.
I've not seen RFAD...perhaps I shouldn't.
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