If my digital camera didn't always pull that Taxi Driver "You talkin' to me?" routine every time I tried to use it, I would use it tonight. I would make a tinfoil heart-bosom and post it here just to prove that no, alas, it was not me who came up with that brilliant foil turkey in the Wondertime Thanksgiving leftovers piece. I would also like to say that I've written about death and heartache and grief and paralyzing anxiety for 250 years now, and never have I gotten so many emails before as I have about the turkey soup. Go figure. You all like yourselves some turkey soup. I'm glad. (Somewhere online is a newspaper article where I am quoted talking about those very same leftovers, and I sound like a finalist in the World's Biggest Jew contest. "Better you should. . . " I start every sentence. "You don't know from . . . ?" I ask. "Oy," I say.)
New Wondertime columns are here and here. And oh, right, I nearly forgot to tell you the name of that poet! Here--lean in close and I'll whisper it in your ear. What? You couldn't hear that? What? You don't want to contribute to my health insurance fund after I get fired from my job? Really, what could I have been thinking?
I am not even getting to the part about the condo, which will have to wait until next week. But yes, I live in a condo that is also a cabin in the woods. Little House on the Prairie, but, you know, with the prairie mown by a management company.
I hope your Thanksgivings were full of thanks.