Someone is coming to appraise my Indian burial ground, and I have left a casual, shabby chic vintage suitcase filled with non-sequential bills by the front door, on an adorable antique stool draped with a lace doily made by nuns. I also made such concessions as putting on pants and boiling a pot of cinnamon water on the stove so it smells like I cook.
Not much is new other than my ethical violations. Luckily, I have a flunky who will go to trial for me. Everyone should have a good patsy. I am naming my next dog Scooter Libby, which is disarmingly perky.
Things are things, and this is not Darfur, and I am not an Austin Powers impersonator. Life is grand! There is a shopping channel just for rehab. It’s sort of like SkyMall.