I promise not to hurt you or impinge upon your virtue

I thought yesterday was going to be one of those days. And it kind of was. But today was like one of those days squared. I can't remember the last time I was this glad to put the boy down to sleep. An hour ago the lovely Bjerica was treated to this on G-talk: if i stab myself in the brain with a kitchen knife, perhaps luke can entertain himself by hitting my dead body. that would give us both some peace. and how are you? Super!

In any case, that's all done now for the evening (I'm praying) and I've been decompressing (or as it's called in some circles, "ignoring the filthy state of the downstairs portion of our home") by visiting my new favorite obsession*, The Sartorialist. Oh, check him out, he's wonderful. It's an intensely satisfying blog, sating both my compulsions to look at people in great detail (it turns out that the kind of scrutiny I find "satisfying" is actually considered "invasive" or something along those lines) and to browse through hundreds of interesting outfits. Like this super-dreamy one.


*and okay, yes, I've also been over at YouTube. But you'll never know what I was watching there! You have no proof. Unless you happen to figure out my alias there, and go to my favorites. Speaking of which, in a short but lovely email conversation with one Mr. J. Finnemore, he casually mentioned that a friend of his teaches "maths" (as our brethren across the pond call it) to the son of one Mr. H. Laurie. Leaving me quite starry-eyed in the same horrifying way that I was when one Mr. B. Pitt caught me staring at him, mouth open, backstage at the 1999 Emmys. In spite of the obvious shame I obviously feel, something demands to be said. And it is this: THREE DEGREES OF SEPARATION, BITCHES!!

I hope we're not out of gin.