Dear Mrsatroxi,

I just read an interview with Tom Colicchio.

He’s a Jayhawks fan!

I knew I liked him for some reason.

atroxi and I (me?) are attempting to save some money.

So today I gathered up some clothes that still had the tags on them and took ‘em back. (Taking things back can sometimes be either a lovely, freeing feeling, or an awful ordeal comparable to bamboo shoots up the nails depending on the skill level of the clerk. This was…neither. Where was I?)

As a last hurrah, I took myself to “my” jewelry store and bought a pair of earrings. Which seems an awful thing to type. I never used to care about jewelry. Everything I had was either given to me or came off of the 99 cent spinny-rack at Ames. And I was fine with that. But then something just changed, I dunno what, and now? I love it. I love the stores, I love the look, the feel, the specialness if it, everything. The store I go to is run by beautiful Russian women with beautiful Russian accents. Buying a pair of 50 dollar earrings is so much more romantic and satisfying when bought from a beautiful woman with an accent. I can turn my back to the door and pretend I’m the Mata Hari selecting jewels to smuggle into Germany to buy a fellow spy’s freedom. (And, yes, I know the Mata Hari and her work was not so romantic in real life. It’s a exotic name. Please leave my fantasy alone. Thank you.) And they are always so nice there. How could I resist?

I justify my purchases to myself by the thought if anything truly bad happens, as least I should have some gold to sell.

So there’s my terrible materialistic admission of the day.

Anybody else have any?

It’s June.

The scent of sun lotion. The smell and feel and look of fried skin. Heat and illusions, air-conditioning and lots and lots of bugs. Blue water and gray water and brown water. Dry straw hair and that needle pain between the eyes. Blisters from new sandals. Shame of lumpy legs. Bird song and dog breath. Nancy Drew and Twizzlers. Skin stuck to plastic chairs. The mildew, gasoline, oil and hot dry rot odor of an old car. Painted toenails. The prickle of strawberry leaves. Box fans. Drinks from the hose. That embarrassing lump of sand in the crotch of a bathingsuit. Pizza. Sweat-wet hair. Elastic topped sundresses. Lightning bugs. Heat lightning. Fishing in the ditch. Suntea. Laze and haze.

For a few seconds, I am nine again.