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Art Garfunkel’s “All I Know.” A longtime S&G lover, somehow I’ve never heard this song. But WKNY played it on the radio this morning, and now I’m hooked. I’m listening to it play on Youtube over and over and damn, Art, you tug at my heartstrings.
If I ever find myself in a crazy, drawn-out, torrid relationship, and then marry the guy, this should be our wedding song. Or at least the song I listen to every time we break up and I cry myself to sleep at night.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to hit play again…
So the world’s tallest woman, Sandy Allen, died this morning, thus paving the way for my best friend Tori to take the title. Coincidentally, Allen lived in the same nursing home as the world’s oldest woman, Edna Parker. Parker’s husband, Earl, passed away in 1939, nearly 70 years ago.
This brings me to my main question.
Has Edna Parker had sex in the past 70 years? I may be a journalist (and therefore terrible in all things number-related), but I know 70 years is a damn long time for anything. Furthermore, if there was a Guinness record for going the longest without sex (obviously nuns, priests, monks and all those other abstinent folk are out), I think Edna Parker would easily snag that one.
What do you think, friends?
Pedicures are, too! I’m totally grossed out, yet very intrigued. Should have hit that up when I was in the District this weekend. I can’t help but wonder how my ticklish feet would fare in one of these places.
I am, surprisingly, not put off by this idea. Perhaps that’s because, after two weeks of backpacking Western Europe in flip flops, I hit up the local salon for the pedi treatment. And let me tell you, nothing scares me more than a small Asian woman holding up a razor blade to my foot and smiling devilishly. Except maybe heights.
Truth be told, no mani/pedi experience could be worse than one I survived last fall. After my nails had been painted and I was sitting with my hands getting beamed by a flourescent light, Rachel and I noticed the two girls who had just painted our nails sitting on the couch by the window. One of the girls had the other pinned to the couch, arm above her head, as she plucked individual armpit hairs from the unlucky, immobile girl. Now THAT grosses me out more than some munching fish.
Well, just a week or so after seeing The Dark Knight (and subsequently blogging about Christian Bale’s Batman voice), I read this on CNN.com. Nope, I’m still not satisfied. I still think Batman had mono.
Christina Applegate’s publicist said in a statement that the star has been battling breast cancer. In the written statement, something very, very clutch (a mon avis) has been omitted. Am I crazy for being annoyed?
“Christina Applegate was diagnosed with an early form of breast cancer. Benefiting from early detection through a doctor ordered MRI, the cancer is not life threatening. Christina is following the recommended treatment of her doctors and will have a full recovery.”
“[D]octor ordered” needs a hyphen, no?
Well, Kingston is not Alabama. And there was no crazy meteor shower here 175 years ago. But every time I come home at night, I’ll stay outside, sometimes sitting on my stoop, other times leaning against my car, and just look up at the stars. Without any light pollution (which I suppose is one of the few perks of living in the middle of nowhere), the stars look as though each one is a speck of glitter thrown onto a big piece of black construction paper. Remember those inflatable huts that used to be set up in elementary schools, with the employees using a laser pointer to identify the major constellations? Whenever I look up on a clear night, I feel like I’m back in the second grade, sitting on that dirty gym floor while craning my neck in awe at the bright lights above me. It’s something I missed at school, being able to stargaze. The sky is never completely dark there, but always a blueish-blackish hue with hints of purple and pink-the lights coming from D.C.
There’s something very comforting about looking up at the stars while listening to the train steam through town, drowning out for just a moment the myriad of crickets humming in the bushes.
If I were any more country, I’d be Laura Ingalls Wilder.
