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From on high

Over the weekend we went to the Farmington Antiques Show, and it was lame lame lame. After the first aisle, we knew we weren’t going to find anything but if we’re ever in the market for a 19th century buggy or some giant ceramic jugs (“Hey! Nice Jugs!”) we know where to go.

After that we checked out West Hartford, the center of which is described in one of our guidebooks as “a mecca for all things hip.” We weren’t expecting much, and it’s a good thing because “hip” it was not. I think the same book used “hip” to describe South Norwalk, and well, that wasn’t hip either. Or maybe it was 20 degrees hipper, but that’s about it. That book needs to define its terms, man.

On the way home, we stumbled upon a good produce market and got all excited that we’d found “our” market (because we eat a lot of fruits and vegetables,) but then the cashier was a total fucking bitch to me. I mean really, it came out of nowhere. Even Terence was stunned. “Hmm, ok, well I guess we’re never going there again.” I don’t get it. I know I complain like a patrician snob in this diary, but the truth is I’m polite and civil to all the little people who cross my path. Noblesse oblige, naturellement.

Last night we drove around our new neighborhood, and scoped out the shops and restaurants and things. There’s a WalMart! Neither one of us has ever been to a WalMart. I can’t wait to check it out. I hear they have things that are more giant than the giant things at Target. And they carry Rimmel and other brands I’ve only seen in magazines.

In the meantime, I’m getting a haircut and a facial.

11:32 a.m. - 2004-06-16



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