My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I am addicted to the NYT. I get it delivered every Sunday. My system goes like this. First, the front page section, which is always grim, bad news around the world with occasional bright spots. like the blind lady whose service animal is a black and white miniature horse named Panda. Then, the Week in Review section, the pundits on the latest imbroglio in Washington. Oh, I immediately toss the sports section and the financial section (I am a grasshopper, after all.) Then I spend some time with Arts, dance which I will probably never see, plays I will never attend, well, not in New York and movies, which I might. Then (rub hands here for emphasis) the Style section. Oh glee, oh joy, the problems of the very rich, esp right now. Among the latest cocktail recipes and the most exclusive Manhattan club opening and who saw whom, is a half page of pics of New Yorkers, in their styley garb. Always some fab gay guys in lime green capes and dandified shoes. In winter a feature on mini dogs dressed in furs sticking out of designer bags that cost a college education. Hemlines and boots, what to wear when it is cold or hot or Easter Sunday. This past Sunday, a series of pics of somebody wearing their collection of designer coats from previous years. The poor dear, having to wear something old...sigh. What next, last year's shoes? Oh gawd.

There was even an article once about a surgeon who was amputating women's little toes so they could fit into their Jimmy Choo's. The hubris! The pathos! The entertainment value!

Well, my car has arrived and I must go. My mani and pedi await.