So my old house closes next week. This means I will get an alarming amount of money dropped into my wee bank account and immediately thereafter, the BIG BANK will come and take most of it. To pay off mortgages and painters and floor finishers and so forth.
Then Jim works his magic and a cement foundation guy will come (after a permit is granted, of course) and pour a foundation so Jim can make a few rooms where there is ugly dankness at the moment.
I began removing the gigantic mirror in the bathroom and it cracked in half. The former owners believed mightily in plastic wood and double stick tape to affix glass, wood, walls, what have you, to any and all surfaces. And if it doesn't quite fit, well, shore it up with a lot of spackle.
Tricia Lockwood, fine and wonderful poet, made it to the magazine section of my beloved NYT. Holy smokes.
Here she is, after the brouhaha about the questionable humor of rape jokes in comedy circles.