A changing selection of the best of the blog
Meet me at the top of the Campanile at noon. You will know me by my fedora and trench coat, by my inexpertly applied fake mustache . . . When and where
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The year was marked by the scent of patchouli. It roped and twisted its way into my room, coated the curtains, soaked into my skin. Some pseudo-hippy incense-burning chick with Camarillo brillo hair lived in the room next door and I put up with a lot of unwelcome odors. Pot smoke, sweat masked by scented oils, cigarettes and sandalwood. My least-favorite scent is an amalgam: Fall Term 1987 . . . Shadowplay
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That's me up there, in our office/guest room/exercise space, dressed in full stay-at-home mom regalia. Baggy cropped pants? Check. Shapeless long-sleeved t-shirt? Check. Hair in desperate need of a cut or at the very least a comb? . . . Sweater dress logic
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In the evening, a half hour before going to bed, take the pill out of the bottle and let it dissolve under your tongue . . . Stay
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If it wasn't frozen, processed, or heavily laced with sugar, my grandmother didn't cook it. I have her old recipe box, which includes many selections from the "Kitchen of Duncan Hines," as well as things like Pow-Wow Sandwiches, English Liver Bake, and salad molds, recipes that are products of the sixties and seventies . . . The intersection of food, love, and memory
updated 9/20/2011