Can’t wait, can’t wait, can’t wait.
And the best part really is that I’m taking myself. Like a grown-up.
I am so psyched! My friend Anica and I have birthdays exactly six months apart, so we’ve decided to start a tradition of going to a super fancy restaurant halfway in between each year. And 35 year olds (well, I’m only 34 and three quarters) go to Daniel, dammit.
…my new J. Crew dress arrived. Have to try it on. If it fits, it would be perfect for Daniel tomorrow night.
I’m reading The Widow’s Guide to Sex and Dating…and I’m actually kind of loving it. I mean, it’s not perfect (the plot has yet to really rev up), but it’s really fun and well-written and juicy and just generally a lovely light summer read.
You go, Carole Radziwill.
Seriously. It sounds like a plot point in a bad novel about prep school, but no! It’s real.
Or bad in a good way? I can’t think of a better use for the fancy balsamic I bought in Italy, frankly.
Exeter. Or, as the legendary school receptionist used to say, “Phillips Eggsetah.”
Just got my high school alumni magazine and was looking to see if anyone from my grandfather’s class passed away (morbid, I know), and saw that a guy from the class behind mine died in an avalanche with his son in March.
I barely knew him, but he was in my Zen Buddhism class and I remembered him so well because he was crazy smart but just didn’t get it - the whole concept of Zen just didn’t sit well with him. It was so persistent that when I TAed a religion class in college and had to write a paper musing on pedagogy, I used him as the intro example and even named the paper after him.
He was 33. For Christ’s sake. And his son was 11. Fuck.