11 jan 2000         

- appraisal -

temptations are not the measure of a man

In the wake of our financial maneuverings, an appraiser came by this morning to look at the house.  She was blonde, in her late twenties, 5'10", very slim, wearing black Levi's, a black silk blouse, and a black leather jacket.  She drove a Lexus.  Her name was Tatiana.

She had a perky little elfin nose. 

Oh Tatiana.

She'd tuck her flaxen tresses behind one ear before pulling out her measuring tape and handing me one end to hold against a wall or doorway.

Oh.  Tatiana.

She'd make little notes on her little clipboard with her little pen in her tiny left hand with fingers that carried no ring, no diamond, no, nothing but a perfect little French manicure on that bare alabaster hand.

Oh my Taty, my free little Taty.

One of the cats scampered by as we measured the hallway.  I told her our cats are worthless.  Oh how we laughed.

Soon her work was finished and she drove away.

I went out and bought cat food.


That's really all there is to report.  I'll go pour myself some coffee now, sit down in the kitchen, and think of England.



  today's music:

"I Wonder Who's Kissing Her Now" -- Harry Nilsson -- A LITTLE TOUCH OF SCHMILSSON IN THE NIGHT


today's wisdom:

"It was a blonde.  A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window."

- Raymond Chandler