Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of George's death. I wouldn't have necessarily thought of it, but my husband brought it up this morning and it struck me how much he still mourns for him. And we both do, if you make me think about it. Even though we now have Rosie and she's a very good dog, we both still have times when we wonder where George is, or we hear him in the house, or we think "George isn't going to like it when he sees this".
The Weasel came by to pick up her dog--We've been dog sitting for a week and a half while she was out west. Las Vegas and Arizona. Apparently stopped very briefly at one of the rims of the Grand Canyon, just to snap a picture and jump back in the car.
And also, apparently, to stop however briefly at the gift shop.
Well, I did it. I opened it in my bathroom (which has the clothes dryer in it, to ensure Optimum Lint). I used my iron on the lowest setting and heated up the back until it was too hot to touch. I then pried it open with a nail file. But once inside I switched implements to the more delicate touch of a jackknife screwdriver.
I was writing up my description of the Craptacular, comparing it to various home shopping networks, except that I make fun of the merchandise and there's no D-list ex-celebrities squeezing the last few seconds of fame from their allotted 15 minutes. And then it occurred to me....
Thank HEAVEN Andy Warhol had the good sense to only allot 15 minutes to such people. Imagine what the world would be like if everyone was given, say, twenty years. I mean, TWENTY YEARS OF PARIS HILTON? Kill me now!