One of my dream rides is a VW Beetle convertible--old school, not one of the nouveau style ones. I mean, those are fine and nice and all, but I just ache for the old ones. Clicking through one of the local auction house's upcoming sale lists, I just saw not one but two, barely driven, up for the taking. Ryan brought me back to earth by reminding me that the cars would likely go for upwards of $20K, but I am hurting for these. We could have matching convertibles! OK, I don't know if that's just gilding the lily, but one? Please, someone? Can we register for the brown one and we'll skip the kitchen stuff?
]]>Someday someone will discover the gene sequence for a desire to live in a television apartment--specifically, Mary Tyler Moore's. (The sequence MTM? I totally have it, it's located somewhere around MM, the ability to eat one-pound bags of chocolate candy and then three-course meals.) There's a post-off about TV decor over at Shelterrific, and this has led me to discover an actual blueprint of MTM's awesome pad here. So awesome. All the love for the sunken living room reminds me of my first single-girl residence, a sweet and chic studio at the Kensington House, chronicled once by the New York Times in a studio-centric piece.
My kitchen sink was so wee that I had to fill my stock pot in the bathtub, and my closets left a lot to be desired, but I had the glorious sunken living space. No doorman named Carlton, however, which reminds me--hey, that was on "Rhoda"!
OK, sorry fellow readers, but this is bullshit. I am totally in love with recorded books (unabridged, of course) for a multitude of reasons, but mostly because they allow me to "read" and drive an otherwise uneventful commute. Why the hate?