Well, let me preface by saying that I never went through a tomboy stage—and I've also never been a diva. That being said, I have always had a kinship with the delicate details befitting the fairer sex. Dorm life proved interesting with my best friend, Sarah, as a roommate. Sarah was not into "froufrou" things...so much so, that many of them offended her sensibilities. I remember one night in particular when we had a bunch of girls in our room to watch Friends—because watching Friends, come on, it was practically a cult—and I passed around my bottle of floral lotion.

I was massaging a dab of it between my hands when Amy expressed interest in the scent. Soon it was passed to Julie, then Angie, and so on and so forth, until the whole room smelled of daisies. Sarah was purple from the fumes...both those resonating from our bodies and those emanating from her stoked irritation glands. It wasn't pretty. The windows were whipped open and the door quivered about its hinge as she stalked off into the neutral air of the hallway. In all fairness, it was a very concentrated perimeter of fragrance, and I could see how someone sensitive to such things might be left less than amused.

As ever, I have veered away from the subject at hand.

Purses.



Well, I have had a nasty run of luck with them as of late. Really, the last year-complete has been difficult. My strong sense of dedication disallows me the freedom of bed-hopping from one handbag's boudoir to the next. I mean, I could do it...but who could live with the guilt? The dishonesty of it all? Not me, friends. I'm a one-purse kinda gal.

The purse dilemma increased tenfold as my hours spent in waiting rooms amplified. There's only so much time you can whittle away sipping cappuccino and reading a Good Housekeeping magazine from 1993—a truth one can only garner from the bittersweet nip of experience. I would come to require both whosits and whatnots to help the minutes along.

Surveys of my purse returned an address book, a pocketbook, my cell phone, and gum. Surely this could amuse even the likes of me! SURELY! You know, I poured my heart into entertaining myself, but to no avail. I flipped through the address book a few times. I counted the change in that zippered pocket. I leafed through the coffeehouse punch cards. I read the ingredients in the gum. I scrolled through my missed calls list on the cell. So, see? I really did invest effort.

And, after those two minutes were over, I has totally bored with the purse. But what to do? It did not possess the wherewithal to encase further belongings, lip balm notwithstanding, and it wasn't likely to any time in the near future. I would see all of these beautiful, perfect-sized purses on Anna's website—Anna-originals!—and at one time I mused, "I should just make my own purse!" HAH. Between my ever weakening fingers and my innate laziness, that was a farce before it was even conceived.

My multiplying discontent was embittering me against my inadequate but innocent purse. All at once, I decided that a severance would be quite beneficial to us both...my homicidal thoughts were mutually destructive, which I can see in hindsight. I wanted to buy a new bag. I did so last week, as a sort of impending-employment celebration...that's him photographed above. Yes, I buy accessories when I really want to "go all out". What of it?

I love the new guy. I often find myself distracted from the focus of my days—usually something intense like peanut M&M's or can openers—and have a need to blurt, "I LOVE MY NEW PURSE!"

...and the room reacts as though Norm just entered Cheers and cries, "Puuuuuurse!"

Yeah. Cheap thrills...I know.

That's Brenda there on the left, yours truly middlemost (love that word...LOVE. IT. It plays well on the tongue and it makes my lips dance!), and Debbie on the right. You may feel free to click on it—if larger pictures appeal to you, that is. As you can see, both of my aunts are taller than me. What you cannot see is that they are both stocking-footed and I am wearing high heeled boots.

They've had a helluva time with television sets here. First, there was the 30" that refused to take command with a remote control. I know what you're thinking, because I thought it too. "Buy a universal remote." The thing is, they thought it too. It wasn't a remote-side problem. So, they switched it with the 25" set that lived in their basement with their niece.

You see, once upon a time, before she lived with them, they had another sitting area and "media center" located in their basement. This was well before it became a subterranean loft. They gave away their furniture in June because their niece loved hers so dearly and they didn't want her to have to put it in storage. They can be rather kind on occasion.



The entertainment center remained, however. I've no use for it, but it isn't hurting me, isn't taunting me, and it certainly isn't making fun of my morning time hairdo...so why should I cause a stir? The above mentioned TV remained as well...and why not? What else would I store in there? Clem? That's just crazy-talk. (...and yet, alluring at the same time....hmm.)

There was initial concern, before the switching of the televisions. "But what will Laura watch?" Debbie asked altruistically...this, coming from the queen of the remote, the one who was suffering most severely in this disturbance.

"I don't use that TV," I reminded gently. "I have my own, remember?" Debbie looked on the verge of asking why it was down there still then, but I didn't feel like getting into my morning time hairdo and so distracted her with a shiny bit of tin foil.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the televisions got switched, and the 25" proved to be a little too aged for the multimedia excellence of our age. But hey, the remote worked...don't be so damn picky. It was with only minor trepidation that I directed my aunt's gaze toward the television displays last Saturday. I forgot to bring the tin foil with me, so I had to use words and hand motions to get her attention this time around.

When the time came to carry the TV over the threshold, I offered my services of muscle. I was denied. I find that my strength is underestimated a lot, which is a pity...because, hello! Push up FREAK! I watched with anguish as my aunts struggled together with the box. I don't know that it was the weight that proved difficult, or each other, but it was painful to observe.

As they set it on the floor, they both managed to receive a fat lip from the box corners. They exhibited a skill of dexterity unlike any I've ever witnessed in all my twenty-four years. My genes are cut from a gilded fabric, man. I seized the command of the project while they were down. I directed the unpacking of the box, and placed it single-handedly upon its low-lying stand while Brenda sat on the floor and watched me with her legs extended in a wide "v", her hands motionless upon the floor and her back slumped. Her eyes were vacant and her tongue prodded at her swollen lip. I shook my head and quit the scene. Really, people. It's not like I just work out for my health. It's also for the lifting of televisions.

You'd think that'd be obvious.

I. The Site
Does it look a little different around here? Yes? That's great news! Your eyes are working! Kudos! If not, I suggest a rendezvous with F5. You kids enjoy, now. Don't stay out too late.




II. Me
This, my friends, is the face of wonderment. You may not recognize it, at least not on my face. The cause? EMPLOYMENT. Nice, huh? I like to think so.




III. Miles
He commented yesterday. Some exec in the upper echelon of Laura Lore managed to mangle his Serendipity log in. Accident or deliberate? You'll just have to mull over that one. I don't tend to admit to accidents if I can help it.




IV. You
Your comments on my post the other day were most generous. Thank you kindly. I was thoroughly amused by your coined "day of lurker-speak".




V. Clem
Yesterday was his birthday. As I watched him fixated on the sink of water tonight, his favorite pastime of fixations, I decided that he's pretty special...notwithstanding the particular fascination with certain body parts of yours truly. Happy Birthday, Clem!




VI. Mom
We have a long day at the hospital to get through. Her bilirubin levels (Hah! You start sleeping and all of the sudden you sound smart again!) were high in the emergency room last Saturday when she went in for pain at her sternum. They ordered an ultrasound, I assume blood work, maybe tea with the queen, and then a sort of tête-à-tête with the man we refer to as "the oncologist".

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My JavaScript isn't working quite like it needs to. I've assigned the task of fixing it to the messiest webmaster of all. Anyway, the entries with pictures that open in a cute little window sized for the picture? Yeah, they're not working now. The *.js file is still there...just playing hard-to-get.

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JS error FIXED!

I grabbed my opposite elbows with gloved hands as we walked back to the car parked at the top level of the hospital parking ramp. I opened the door, descended to my seat, and said something terribly witty—and I do mean terrible-y witty. I don't remember just what it was, because I say many terrible-y witty things in a day. Often, I am left with the task at laughing at them alone, and why should today prove differently?

I looked to my stony-faced mother with the flickering remains of my laugh still playing about my smile. She commented, looking over the top rim of her glasses, "You've got crow's feet."

Deflated, but reminding myself that she just got connected to her 24-hour chemo and was probably uncomfortable, I bit back a sharp retort and replied, "I like to think of them as laugh lines...MOTHER."

I was almost as flattered as I was last Friday when we sat in that Chinese restaurant and Brenda exclaimed as though she were the circus ringmaster announcing the freak show, and at a volume and pitch loud enough for France to hear, "Your [ear]lobes are attached to your head!"