Maud: Not yet talking about herself in the third person

This post comes courtesy of guest blogger Carrie Frye.

After posting the message below I realized I should probably again point out that today it’s me, CAAF posting, not Maud. Again, all opinions expressed today are mine, et cetera, not Maud’s. Indignant emails should be directed to caaf at maudnewton dot com.

A benefit of guesting for Maud is she has smart readers and they send links (this makes a nice break from my normal business of getting all my links from Ed). This highly entertaining article in the Chronicle is about Davy Rothbart, whose book Found consists of found items: “Snapshots, to-do lists, diaries, a half-page love letter on a city bus. Freaky stuff that someone loses or drops or carelessly disposes of.”

My favorite bit is this: “One of the saddest, from a little girl in Seattle, is a plea to her parents to stop ‘bringing that stuff’ in the house. ‘Please, for me, Mommy and Daddy, I don’t like it when you do it. It makes a greater chance for us getting kicked out of the house.'” (Thanks to Martha for the link.)

I have a busy morning doing public service. Moorish Girl has good things up, including a review of Dancing Arabs. And Sarah Weinman is cooking, breaking all sorts of interesting book news. Also, they are both fetching.

Confidential to Ed: I could not bear to wear the tangerine muumuu this week, which you may recall marks a particularly grievous birthday. During such a week, the muumuu would not make me feel electric and powerful. It would make me feel like I had in fact realized my worst fears and become my mother, Mrs. Roper.

I was going to go with something decorous and age-appropriate, with just that edge of funk that alerts the kids that back in the day I used to be cool (think Stevie Nicks in a cardigan), but at the last moment I had a change of heart. I will not go softly into the dark night of 33. I will march all around town in my too-tight hot pants and red-sequined baton-twirler’s top. And if my 33-year-old pooch hangs a little over the pants top, and my granny underwear bunches in the back, and if the crows feet around my eyes alarm when you get up close, I have four words for you: Buy me a drink.


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