One’s own house is best, though small it may be;
each man is master at home;
though he have but two goats and a bark-thatched hut
’tis better than craving a boon.
And I, my friends, am going to hang that in my house, when I find one, which I can, because I have “gorgeous credit” and I have been preapproved for a loan. And I think I can do a little better than a bark-thatched hut.
What is a word that means “The Study of Letter Writing”?
Epistolism?
Help!
One thing that tickles me a great deal about living in Nashville is that it’s like a giant small town. Eventually, you feel like you know someone who knows someone who knows the person you’ve just met and you start to realize that the folks at Wendy’s recognize your voice when you hit the drive-thru.
The other thing that tickles me is that I now live someplace that is also a part of the cultural imagination. I was listening to Steve Earle this morning and thinking “Hmm, I could drive down Lewis Street.”
Eh, I got nothing. I’m the least fun girl when I’m stressed.
I’m distracted and blah. Sarcastro dropped off a big bag of yarn from his mom this morning. It’s beautiful.
That’s all I’ve got.
So, I was looking for solid evidence that Teresa of Avila played the tambourine when I discovered this.
Is it wrong that I want to have art-induced hallucinations?
On the other hand, I have no desire to listen to music of the Romantic period, which just goes to show there’s only so far I’ll go for vision.
Tiny Cat Pants 