And I owe you reviews of all the shows we saw and catty comments about all the celebrities we ran into.
And I’m fully aware that by “I owe you” I actually mean “I intend to write but you have no obligation to read or even care about” but “I owe you” sounds more like my ramblings provide actual value, which helps offset my crippling self-image issues about the mole on my foot. Plus it makes that first sentence easier to embroider on a sampler.
In the mean time, I leave you with a picture of the dog we stayed with in New York. This is Q:
Q lives with a handsome college friend of mine and his equally handsome husband in their fabulous Art Deco sunken-living-room-and-arched-doorway Chelsea apartment. And Q has a bone. And he wants to make sure that you know he has a bone, so he shows it to you from many different angles and with many different grunts and whimpers so that there is no chance that you will miss the fact that he has a bone. He doesn’t want you to tug on it or take it from him or throw it for him to fetch. He just wants to make absolutely sure that you know he. has. a. bone. Plus if you take him for a walk in Chelsea, he will attract legions of muscular, well-moisturized men who will want to say hi to you. Bone!