Henry's my cat, that fat little loaf on the radiator.
For some reason when I go to my mom's house and see her cat (Libby, adopted the day Scooter Libby was indicted -- but also short for Elizabeth), I break out into cooking-and-eating imagery. There's something so luscious, so juicy about her. She's a little velvet fat bomb. Damn, she's great. Anyway, while Libby seems to bring out the I'm-gonna-cook-you-up-and-eat-you imagery most strongly, Henry, my darling firstborn sweetest sweetie, does too. Hence pie. Mmmm, pie.
Floorpie!
Oh,
Henrypie, I adore you. Every single word you write is just pure laughing gold. No, platinum. I realize that I sound like such an ass-licking (can we say ass-licking?) dweeb, but I just love you.
Adriana hearts Sarah 4-ever. Every time I see you've posted, I get excited, because with Henrypie, you know it's going to be good. It's like the brand you can trust. I want to be able to write like you. No, wait, I think I just want to
be you. And I'm a cat-eater too, so I love your kitty stories. Munch, munch.
A little velvet fat bomb. Oh, the perfection!
And now I'm going to edge away, verrrry slowwwly, stare at my shoes, and blush deeply. Writer's crush is
so embarassing.
Front-Ranger, you have on the finest looking pink sweater in your photo. I've been meaning to tell you how much I admire it. I love sweaters, especially pink ones.
Yaadpyar is the coolest name
ever. Your post reminded me of hearing about how monks in the middle ages who were enscribing illuminated manuscripts would use a new quill whenever they wrote the name of God. Then they would burn the quill so it would remain unsullied by using it to write anything ordinary or profane. Neat, huh? I always think I would have made a good monk. Except for the whole gender issue. And the fact that I'm an infidel. Oh, and the shaved head. I'd look terrible with a shaved head. But other than that - perfect!
I'm a Libran too, but (oh, I'm becoming such a
bore) - whisper it, I don't really believe in that either. But I'll try,
Ubie, just for you. I will try.
Elle and others have heard this story before, but Chanterais comes from backpacking around France with my best friend Elizabeth a few years ago. After getting joyously drunk on a bottle of Burgundy's finest one sunny afternoon, we got into a wonderful argument about whether the fragrant, apricot-coloured melon we were eating for lunch was a chan
terais or a cha
rentais. I fought valiantly for chanterais. I was wrong. And ever since, Elizabeth has called me Chanterais, just to rub it in. Bitch.
C'est tout.
Now I am going to stop writing silliness, and try very, very hard to get a life.