Naturally, when stressed, one buys doorknobs.
What? One doesn't? I thought one did.
I recommend it, highly!
Now if only I can find my screwdriver...
I was not looking for doorknobs. No. I popped into Anthropology on Fifth Avenue around 17th Street and instead of clothes found, well, you know. I thought they were gorgeous. Had to have them. I need one more. Must go back.
And then, restocking the gin supply at the wine store, the desire to drink bubbly, sweet Italian wine hit me. Came out of nowhere. Doorknobs and Moscato in one day. A nice manager-type girl (not the one who's over-interested in my private life and tries to hook me up with septegenarians) guided me since I didn't know what I was doing, and the bitter Green-type girl who always says, Are you comfortable with plastic, asked me instead, Do you want another plastic bag, when packing my bag (how can you carry heavy bottles in a thin handle-less paper bag, I ask you???). In winter she has remarks to make about my mother's mink. I do not need a dose of morals when I buy my liquor. They are old, dead minks. I sat beside them in church when I was little. Yes, I agree in principle, yes, I'm rather uncomfortable wearing them, but goddamn it, They're warm. Like the scrambled eggs Garfield sat in.
Anyway, it was bloody delicious, the fizzy Italian, and apparently just what I needed...a 5% alcohol content? An aberration, maybe, but, well, yum. There's none left.