The Rittenhouse Review

A Philadelphia Journal of Politics, Finance, Ethics, and Culture

Tuesday, February 24, 2004  

Some Actually Spoken Out Loud

My hands are starting to look like old-man hands.

Let’s not talk about my bony legs. This may be the summer I stop wearing shorts.

Did you know potato chips cost 27 cents an ounce? I did the math. I think I remember silver trading at that price at one time.

Someday, someone, somewhere will sell dry dog food in a bag that’s easy to open.

I will never be this kind of writer. I promise. (Link via SnarkSpot, the weblog of Jennifer Weiner, who is not that kind of writer, and who, by the way, is enjoying continued success, the kind of success that makes me want to pull my hair out with envy cheer for a local, yet worldwide best-selling, author.)

In my new house, there is no smoking allowed inside. This is a good thing. [Post-publication insertion: By which I mean, I’m hoping this will help me quit.]

Mildred is gnawing on a hoof of some sort that is filled with peanut butter or a peanut-butter-like substance. Two gigantic burps already. I cannot get her attention. Mildred is in the zone: glazed eyes, Homer Simpson-style gurgling, and everything.

I saw “Miss Thing” today. She wasn’t very friendly. Strange, that. Strange, she.

I have to finish packing. Light blogging ahead.

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