One of the ways I have been occupying myself in these not-so-hot times is by buying stuff. Dresses, new sheets, airplane tickets to Italy, and, of course, vintage aftershave bottles shaped like Lincoln, Washington, Teddy Roosevelt, and Benjamin Franklin. (I don't know why he's included...maybe because he was president of Pennsylvania?)
When TMS came over the other night and saw them on my floor, he wondered if I had perhaps sustained brain damage when I hit myself in the head with my front door last week, but no. They are still full of their aftershave, which smells just like four old dead guys should smell.
I realize that I am well on my way to becoming one of those old ladies who dies in a tiny apartment full of peculiar artifacts and stacks of books, and while people are looking for my body in my labyrinth of junk they'll mumble to themselves things like, "I wonder whose skull that is" and "was that really FDR's bathtub?" I'm pretty fine with that, honestly. And I don't really like cats, so at least when they locate my withered form crushed beneath a pile of Russian novels and still clutching a bottle of scotch, nothing will have eaten half of my face. Hopefully.
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