04 June 2003 - 10:25 p.m.
Overheard from upstairs: "Jesus Christ, what in hell are you?" accompanied by noises appropriate to chasing down and slapping at some large ugly variation of insect. Egad.
Camille Dungy, The Preachers Eat Out: Lady, my one regret. . .
Been keeping the shoe budget on a shoestring, as it were, but two days ago it became embarrassingly obvious that it was time to cough up for a new pair of basic black flats. My old pair kept squawking as I walked; after I gave up and kicked them off, another woman in the room commented, "Got tired of waiting for the ducks to follow, eh?"
The BYM made extended fun of my definition of "baby spinach," but as far as I'm concerned, if the leaves are larger than my thumb, they're ready to pick for eating. So, even though it was chilly enough today that I didn't venture out without a sweater, tonight I put together the summer's first basil-and-spinach-and-mayonnaise sandwich. Bliss!
One year ago: " Fire can spend itself without fanning; water evaporates; air settles."
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