Well then. Fountains?

How much happiness is not enough?

I am not Carrie Bradshaw, nor do I write a column about sex and relationships, but that is a good title for one, no?

I want to write a column for some paper. Who wants me to write a column for their paper? How do I get that job.

However, I will steadfastly refuse to dye awful looking roots into my hair and run around looking tacky. Me? Never.

I ADORE the Christmas lights on Monument Ave. Always have. However, this year there seems to be an unsettling aquamarine theme going around.

I don't approve. I feel as though we should have had an avenue meeting and discussed/voted on a good color.

I like the white ones myself. Or the giant bursts for multi-colored lights that are artfully arranged to appear haplessly hurled over the balcony.

I just went out and bought a fleece for the cat.

Margaret is at play practice counting chairs with R. Cooper Timberline.

Adam is off listening to some actors read a play and seeping blood out of his thumb.

I have a frosty and am going to watch Dexter. Happy as a clam in a pig.

I cannot wait to watch the clip of Sam's tap performance at Lincoln Center last night on some computer that will actually load the clip and make it look like a movie instead of a lazy artist's flip book.

I CANNOT WAIT to humiliate Betty's soul into a pile of charred empty fragments of nothingness by making her wear this sweater.

Long fancy fingernails are just not me. Neither perhaps are stumpy chewed ones. Something nice and tidy and practical I think.