The cocoa machine at work is sort of hit and miss. Sometimes it spews out this rich, sweet hot chocolate, and other times it expels a watered down version of said drink. So I've learned to take a test sip before carrying it back to my desk, and if I've been served the watery version, then I'll add half-and-half to make it decently drinkable.
But recently I noticed something next to the half-and-half. A mystery container was wrapped in a grocery bag, with an attached note that read: "Do not drink! Will cause intoxication."
And along the side of the note, someone else had responded, "Do you really think that's going to stop anyone?" with a little smiley face.
Flagrante delícia: yum yum yum.
Last night I had a dream that my mom paid Radiohead $100 to call me up on the phone. I was absolutely ecstatic about this, and tried to think of interesting things to ask them.
Me: "So, Thom, what's your middle name?"
Thom: "Middle name? What's that?"
Me: "Oh, that's right. British people don't have middle names."
And this wasn't sarcastic. For whatever reason, that was the truth – the British simply didn't believe in middle names.
After that, they sang me some songs over the phone, and it was pretty much the best dream I've had in a while.
Finally, something to do with those annoying flaps: Netflix Origami.
Something just a tad peculiar happened this evening: I was standing in Safeway, browsing the magazines, looking at a cover of James Franco next to the words, "…the next James Dean." Meanwhile, James Blunt was the song playing overhead. And guess what our checker's name was? That's right. James.
Goodies from Canoe.
Well, it was a pretty typical day, except for the:
Today at work, I'm in the bathroom minding my own business when a roll of toilet paper comes speeding into my stall, unrolling along the way. There's an awkward pause, then I hear a voice say, "Oh, ha-ha, my toilet paper ran away!"
And I sort of laugh and then stammer, "I'll, uh… here," and push it back. Then I try to remain anonymous and scoot my shoes as far away as possible. That's typical Rachel Logic – here I am, acting like I was the one who accidentally flung something the size of a pet turtle into a neighboring stall.
But, you know, it could have been worse. It can always be worse.
The difference between house and home: Cox & Cox.
When I woke up this morning, I discovered that my glasses had flung themselves off the night table, and were probably hiding in a pile of clothes/books/pillows waiting to be cleaned up. But I didn't know for sure, because without actually having my glasses on, I'm about as useful as a paper knife. I considered stumbling into the bathroom and putting my contacts in, but then thought stubbornly, "No! Can't be defeated by AWOL glasses. Must...find...them..."
I found them eventually, but it was the optometric equivalent of locking my keys in a car.
A few minutes ago, the fire alarms in our apartment building went off, which was about as loud as handing a screaming baby a megaphone and then positioning your face a quarter of an inch away. When it happened, Rufus the cat beelined directly into the bedroom and onto the scale. I guess there's no better time than when an alarm is falsely tripped to see if you've been nibbling on too many kitty treats.
Can't remember the keyboard shortcut for that character? Copy and paste from here.
We ate dinner at a nearby teriyaki joint this evening. It's the kind of place that displays the menu visually with pristine photos of plates after plates after plates of various combinations of noodles, meat, and football-shaped rice. But tonight there was a new addition taped to the bottom of the menu, misaligned type on a yellow piece of paper: TOFU MENU.
A Tofu Menu! I thought. Finally!
The sad part is that there were only two items on it: Tofu Stir Fried and Tofu Yakisoba.
My prediction is that Tofu Menus are going to start showing up everywhere within the next year. Tofu Menu at McDonalds. Tofu Menu at Black Angus.
Small goodness from imogeneANDannie.
I'm watching America's Next Top Model right now, but not without plenty of, "Um…what? Seriously?" I think every season the show gets more ridiculous and the girls get less attractive. Right-o. Time to flip to the channel to Project Runway.
I took an alternate bus home from work today, one that mostly clears out by the time it gets near my stop. At the end of the ride, a guy in the back of the bus started talking on his cell phone – and by talking, I mean shouting. Not angry shouting, but this-is-just-how-I-talk shouting. Anyway, the audible side of the conversation went something like this:
"I told you, I'll be there in a couple of minutes!… Yeah, I'm just a couple of blocks away. I'll be at Safeway any minute now!… What? What?… Subway?!… Where's Subway at!… I don't know where the Subway is at!… Oh… Oh, okay! Subway!"
And then the bus driver got on his speaker, and announced to the whole bus: "I want some Subway, too."
A few minutes ago I was going to light some tea light candles that sit on the dining table. But, oh, surprise! There's a fat, brown spider hanging out on one of them. And I'm about ninety-nine percent sure that it's dead (tested by blowing on it) but it's still standing on all its legs as if it's alive.
Option one: turn the candle holder upside down and dump the spider in the trash. Downside: the candle will also fall into the trash.
Option two: light the wick and burn the spider. Downside: morbid, in a small and strange way.
Option three: introduce Rufus into the situation, and he might eat it. Because, um… cats eats spiders, right? Isn't that how it works?
This has been making the rounds, but I need to put my two cents in that Jayme McGowan's work is daydreamingly wonderful.
Today I bought Cat Power's album The Greatest and am looooving it.
Today I also submitted a short story to a literary magazine, which will go unnamed unless, by some ultra stroke of luck, they accept the story. It feels good to have something actually finished and sent out there.
The even greater thing is that after finishing that piece, I'm even more pumped to start on a new one.
Tomorrow's challenge: make a decent jicama salad for a little BBQ we're going to. Any secrets I should know?
Okay, seriously: I could spend all day drooling over Cannelle et Vanille.
Although, in reality, I spent most of today writing, being distracted by writing forums, eating candy and salmon (not together), watching The Science of Sleep again, fighting with Rufus over a roll of wrapping paper that he has become obsessed with, and being glad that there's still two days left in the weekend. Bonne nuit!
Cuteness from Romp.
Went to the Seahawks game tonight, although I'm not too ashamed to say that I started reading New Yorker fiction on my iPhone after a while. When we were leaving, we walked about five stories down this huge, winding ramp, and all of a sudden a guy in a wheelchair came speeding past everyone, taking full advantage of the slope with a huge grin on his face. I imagine that he was thinking something like, "Later, suckers!"
Illustrations from Marc Johns.
The woman sitting across from me on the bus this morning was wearing shoes resembling Band-Aids. They were flesh-colored, designed with minimalism and padding, and featured sections pricked with pinholes for ventilation.
Recent Sartorialist faves.
Right now I'm being held captive by Rufus. If I move my foot a millimeter, he'll sink both his claws and teeth in. And to make his point even clearer, he's both sitting on and eating the newest issue of The Stranger that I want to be reading.
The thing I forgot to mention about my walk in the rain yesterday was the tiny snails everywhere. Their shells were no larger than a quarter and housed half-transparent bodies. With my monstrous rain boots I would have undoubtedly crushed one had I not kept my eyes on the sidewalk.
That's one of those tiny things I love about the city. The slug population is significantly lower. Once, when I was younger, a black slug had crawled up the front door of our house and curled around the door handle. I would have had nightmares for weeks had I grabbed that slimy handful. (Although what would be even worse would be flying slugs. Oh, shudder.)
Low-key today. I finished watching Tremors and Transformers (neither of which I'll probably bother to watch again), read all of John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist (more philosophical than how-to and very good) then rubbed some blush & vaseline on my cheeks and went out for a walk in the rain, making use of my pear-patterned rainboots and stopping to pet a sweet Husky tied up outside the library. I'm not sure where the rest of the day went. I have mixed feelings about the book I've been reading (The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle) – the plot's interesting enough, but the writing's a bit dull – and I might start cheating on it by reading some Faulkner...
Oh, YES. I saw Radiohead tonight in concert. As in, my favorite band. As in, I actually know most of the lyrics. This was the set list (from memory, mind you, but I think it's right):
1. 15 Step
4. There There
5. All I Need
6. Pyramid Song
7. Talk Show Host
8. The National Anthem
9. The Gloaming
12. Faust Arp
13. Jigsaw Falling Into Place
14. Climbing up the Walls
15. Dollars and Cents
The show was everything I had hoped for. There was an encore, but Stefan & I left as it was starting, and for a hell of a good reason: it took us THREE HOURS to drive the 40 miles out there. (So you can only imagine how awful it would have been to leave with the masses.) As we ran out to the car, the rain started coming down faster, but even with soaked hair clinging to my face and an empty stomach and malfunctioning eardrums, all the wonderfulness was not dampened a bit.
Latin America in the modern age: LAMA.
Some character studies from the morning bus ride:
1. Girl wearing yellow Chucks Taylors, blue zip-up sweatshirt, t-shirt silkscreened with a neon skyline and "DALLAS", jeans that are slit an inch on both sides. She's wearing a plain chain necklace, no makeup, hair pulled back, glasses. Beside her, a bag slumps with frayed edges, decorated with blue and tan cats. She's playing a PSP with the grimace of either angst or severe concentration. She holds a purple Starbucks mug between her thighs.
2. Woman in her mid-twenties wearing a black blazer, gemstone necklace, dark wash jeans, black boots with silver piping. Shiny hair the color of honey. Mauve lipstick. A small purple purse is slung over her shoulder. She's reading a book. Near the end of the bus ride, she pulls a banana out of the purse, puts the book in, then places the banana on top – it doesn't seem like there's room for anything else.
3. Native American middle-aged couple, embracing each other. Woman: baby blue sweatsuit with an embroidered feather on the pants, gray and black sneakers, tie-dyed shirt, turquoise ring. Man: skinnier than his wife, pale jeans, cream button-up shirt, leather jacket, brown loafers. Both are wearing caps. Hers says "NATIVE PRIDE." His says "BUICK."
The other day we're standing in Petco, trying to decide what type of cat food to buy for Rufus. Then I spot it: "Organic Turkey and Organic Spinach Formula." Because, come on, isn't it funny to feed a cat spinach? I mean, can you imagine setting out a bunch of fresh spinach leaves in a dish and your cat furiously racing over to it and scarfing it down?
Anyway, that's what Rufus ate for dinner tonight, as I stood over him and imitated Popeye: "A-gah-gah-gah-gah!"
Wasara has the most gorgeous paper tableware.
It was unbearably hot today. To sum up my day, materialistically: I finished reading The Other and started McSweeney's Issue 27; watched It's Pat and From Hell; bought cat food, plums, and liquor; received a 798-page Vogue in the mail and ripped out the only half dozen pages that I liked. I have a feeling I won't be renewing my subscription.
And, dutifully, here's my weekly novel update: 8,000 words. To put that into perspective, that's about 20 formatted pages. My goal this weekend is to hit the 10,000 mark and maybe start revising the first chapter.
Have a splendid Saturday night!
Pretty from stone & honey.
On the bus today I saw a man try to flirt with the woman he was sitting next to. This wouldn't have been unusual, except the man was deaf. He motioned to her face – she was wearing bright red lipstick and well-orchestrated eyeshadow – and then drew a smile on his own face. I don't know if this is actually sign language or the kind of sign language used toward people who won't understand it. In any case, the woman was gracious.
"Oh, thank you!" she said. "I had it done professionally. At Macy's!"
The man made more gestures around his face, and she laughed and thanked him again. It went on like this for a couple minutes. At one point, they both glanced in my direction, and I lowered my head shamefully.
"That's my cat. He's my baby!" I then heard her say. I couldn't help but sneak another glance. She had her cell phone out, and the man pointed to the screen, then drew invisible whiskers onto his face with his fingers. After this, he imitated a cat kneading, claws out. The woman laughed again, and repeated that her cat was "her baby, and so soft".
But then he made a gesture that she didn't understand. It almost looked as if he was pretending to cut his wrists. After repeating it several times, the woman frowned, then said, "Oh… I don't…I don't really give out my phone number."
So, as you might guess, it was silent between those two during the rest of the ride. What a way to end the week, huh?
Last night we ventured down to the fish ladder at the Ballard Locks to see a plethora of Chinook salmon. I loved how demanding this sign was ("Understand it, damn it!") and the redundancy of its subsequent inquiry. I also admired a funny little sign directing the way to the fish ladder. It would be severely entertaining to see an fish hop up a set of stairs. Or, wait – is that fish dancing?
While we were there, a little boy leaned over the railing and screamed, "EW! Soapy water!" (It was, in fact, not soapy.) This interested his little sister greatly, for she immediately yelled back in a baby doll voice, "Andy, why did you say "EW"?" I later spotted them by the roses, chasing a neon soccer ball.
Goodies from Poketo.
I should know better by now. I really should. Four out of seven nights of the week, I'll decide to take a "refresher nap" with the intention of waking back up in fifteen or twenty minutes. But it never, ever works. I end up waking up after midnight in a hazy stupor, cursing myself for wasting the night away. That's what happened last night: I was writing, decided to lay down for just a minute or two, and then woke up two and a half hours later.
But something was different. I had this awful, eerie feeling. From the other room, I heard a woman emit a muted scream: "Nooooooooo! Nooooo...." Silence followed. I stayed very still, my eyes heavy. Finally, I stumbled out into the living room.
And you know what it was? Stefan had been watching a horror movie. I had woken up during the scariest and most climatic part – the ending. So as I was laying in bed, mistaking a length of dead silence for being ominous and foreboding, it was only the end credits rolling.
Today's lesson: don't do that again.
For whatever reason, straddling the arm of the couch is Rufus' preferred hang-out spot. My theory is that he sits like this for maximum swiping power: once the position is assumed, he'll act like a snapping turtle even at the gentlest touch, all four limbs (and mouth) in attack mode. The best part is that from above, his flattened body becomes an unimaginably huge rectangle, and with his arms jutting out on both sides he resembles a bear skin rug.
Walking past an Indian restaurant this afternoon, I saw something strange laying in the doorway: an abandoned eye patch. It was face down – in other words, gauze side up – and was plenty dirty. After seeing it, I kept trying to imagine the circumstance that would put it there. Was it just some careless guy, realizing his eye had finally healed, discarding it before meeting a date? Or was it a fight between two people, one of whom had snatched the eye patch, thrown it on the ground, and stomped on it furiously? I mean, really, how many eye patches have you seen on sidewalks?
Anyway, I also finished reading Prep.
There's nothing special stylistically about the book – in fact, there's a pretty big lack of richness to the descriptions. I wasn't convinced that there was anything more to the protagonist beyond what was presented in the book. She was neurotic, but in a flaky, unimaginative way. Here's the thing that killed me: in an interview in the back of the book, the author says, "I hate most books that are from a child's point of view... I hate it when you can feel that the character is much less intelligent than the author." But this is exactly how her book made me feel: the main character makes the most asinine, shallow, and rude observations, followed by reflections that aren't as poignant as she seems to think they are.
But at the same time, I couldn't stop reading it. It was like a diary had been handed to me, and I wanted to know what was going to happen, and I could tell there would be some juicy details sooner or later. It was relatable material. It was occasionally funny. It had a good opening and a decent ending. Overall, though, I'd advise to pass it by.
My new read: The Other by David Guterson (author of Snow Falling on Cedars).
Opening Ceremony shoes from shopbop.
And speaking of opening ceremonies, did you see the Olympics last night? Craziness, Zhang Yimou! I thoroughly enjoyed it.
After work yesterday Stefan & I went to a small Mexican restaurant that looked more Italian from the inside: crimson tablecloths, matching tealight candles, no booths. As soon as we sat down, a little girl at an adjacent table broke out in song, "Mamma mia, here I go again! My my, how can I resist you?" and for a second I was horrified that it was going to be another Zeeks Pizza occurrence. Lucky for me, it wasn't.
Andrea Joseph's ballpoint pen sketches are amazing.
Some of you will be very pleased to hear that another Suspicious Fruit incident happened today.
This morning, I sat down and noticed it on the bus seat beside me. A small, flat raisin. My first instinct was to brush it away, but I didn't, for three reasons: first, it was partially squished and I didn't want sticky fingers for the whole bus ride; second, my aim is pitiful and the raisin would likely ricochet off someone's leg, making me look like a jerk; third, if you're smart, you always check a bus seat for offending leftovers before sitting down.
So I tried to ignore it. And after a couple stops, a guy in khaki pants sat next to me. Khaki, of all things. I imagined him standing back up, pointing to his seat, and snarling at me, "Why didn't you warn me about that? Now I've got raisin stains all over my brand new khakis."
When he finally did get up, I didn't see the raisin. Oh, crap, it's probably stuck to his pants, I thought. But then I spotted it on the edge of the seat, completely flattened, a trail of glaze running behind it. Like a squished bug, a scene of a crime.
I started reading Prep today. I have a soft spot for awkward coming-of-age novels, but this one seems to be trying a little too hard in some ways. Anyway, now when I read something so-so, it's actually helpful, because I make mental notes on what to avoid for my own book. Speaking of which, quick update: last week I hit the 28-page mark on the outline and suddenly got the urge to actually start writing it. So far I've written about 1,600 words. So, um, one percent of the desired total word count. Somehow, that is both daunting (can I do it 99 times over?) and encouraging (no longer zero percent!).
Gorgeous headbands from ban.do: if I could pull it off, I'd totally wear it.
On our way home after dinner, Stefan & I stopped by Safeway for a couple things. Really, only a handful, and nothing interesting: razors, chilled drinks, floss. But when we returned home, I found a surprise waiting for me in the bottom of the plastic bag: two stray blueberries.
One was plump, and the other was about half its size. I poked them; both were about ready to burst.
Did my Suspicious Banana post somehow trigger a Suspicious Blueberry incident? I swear, if something off-kilter happens tomorrow with an apple...
I didn't know there was such a banana peel problem in London. But that, evidently, is the case. London Bananas.
Today a co-worker took a loaf of banana bread out of his bag when we were about to leave work. I asked if it was homemade, and he said that it was; some friends staying at his apartment during the previous week had baked it.
"Wait," I said. "Did they... just use stuff from your kitchen?"
"Uh, I think they bought the bananas," he said.
Doesn't that strike you as being simultaneously thoughtful and odd? You have some people over, and before you know it, they sift through your cabinets and whip up some delectable offering for you?
Conclusion: something suspicious going on with bananas. Worldwide.
I'm eying the handbags over at morelle.
This has happened with the last handful of books I've read: when I'm on the last page, I get a horrible urge to skip to the last sentence. It's like having the dessert tray sitting on the table while I'm still working on the entrée.
It stinks, and I've ruined the ending a couple times.
So now, once I've flipped that second-to-last fateful page, I immediately slap my hand over the last paragraph. Then I have to inch my fingers down, line by line, until I've read the last word. It makes me feel like an eight-year-old.
Can you imagine if I had this same problem with movies? I'd be sitting there on the couch, sensing the final scene arriving, my foot nervously tapping the carpet. Then all at once, I'd lunge for the remote, screaming, "I have to watch the last frame! I can't resist it!"
I am back to 100% and am, additionally, fully caffeinated. Part of my excitement comes from finding a new author to swoon over: Raymond Carver. My interest in him, though, is somewhat backward, and not technically new: he's the inspiration behind the brilliant film Short Cuts, which I own. Half an hour ago it dawned on me that the movie came with a book of selected short stories by Carver, so I dug it out and pawed through the pages, naturally. It's now next in line after finishing my current book.
I simply could not resist this photo. (Via ffffound.)
My bus driver this morning was the vocal doppelgänger of Batman, à la Christian Bale. In a gruff, monotone voice, the driver announced each stop in a new and terrifying manner. "Third and Pike," he'd say with breathy force, as if to really say, "Third and Pike... if you dare."
DomestiKate has some fantastic vintage pieces.
Yesterday morning, at the first downtown stop, a small elderly woman wanted to board the bus. "Wheelchair coming on!" our bus driver announced, and peeled out of her privileged seat. "Come on, people, move to the back! I need this space. There's a wheelchair!" (For all you non-bus-riders: a portion of seating in the front of the bus can be folded up to make room.)
Not getting any response, she said again, "Move back, people." Slowly, the passengers standing in the aisle moved toward the rear of the bus. The driver adjusted a seat, then returned to her own to engage the bus lift.
"Oh," she said, focusing on the elderly woman, "It's not a wheelchair. It's a... walker." The woman beside me began pouting, making faint, dog-like whining noises. Another passenger jumped up to help with the walker; she was very tall and full-bodied, wearing lavender sweatpants (ripped in an inconvenient place), brightly rimmed glasses, and a chartreuse ribbon strung from one wrist to another. As soon as she nudged the walker into place, a large stack of papers fell from it. But she remained in good humor, scooping them up, shuffling them back together.
But then the whole walker collapsed in on itself.
"Oh, God," she said, losing her patience. Meanwhile, the elderly woman had settled into a seat, acknowledging none of this.
The bus driver retracted the bus lift. She turned the ignition key, and nothing happened.
"Come on, baby," she said. "Come on, start." Nothing. Not a growl.
So after all that commotion to get the retiree and her misbehaving walker on board, we had broken down. And into an oddly chilly summer morning, a crowd of drowsy commuters filed out of the bus, some opting to walk to their destination, some (like me) preferring to hop on another bus and secretly hoping the woman with the walker wouldn't choose the same one.
Today was about as un-summery as you can get. It was definitely a J. Crew cashmere sort of day.
Recently I compiled a list of my ten most-loved authors. They are, in alphabetical order:
1. bret easton ellis
2. craig clevenger
3. david sedaris
4. dave eggers
5. j.d. salinger
6. jhumpa lahiri
7. jeffrey eugenides
8. john steinbeck
9. syliva plath
10. wally lamb
The thing that struck me was that nearly half of them have a first name beginning with J. And 80% of them are male. 80% are still alive. Looks like I have literary favoritism and didn't even know it.
So far this summer I've failed at expanding my printed-dress wardrobe. These: from the shopbop lookbook.
Ahem, so, imagine you are the president of a shaving gel company, and I pitch this commercial concept to you:
Zoom into a man's cheek, halting at a macro view of the field o' stubble. The hairs are sleepy, leaning all over the place. But, wait, let's not make these ordinary hairs. Let's put a face on each hair. And not just any face – the face of the man whose very face they are inhabiting.
So it's essentially a thousand limbless mini-hims growing on himself. And then (!) a rush of green liquid smashes into the area, and the army of anthropomorphic hairs perk up and chant the product name in unison, thrilled that they are about to be slashed, forever banished, drowned in a sink drain.
How could you say no?
Point being: today was the first day I really thought about how creepy that Lectric Shave commercial is. (And how priceless his expression is at the six second mark.)
Nice jewelry from Smashing.
Most of yesterday and today I was up north visiting my parents. After living in the city for five years, I've become adept at blocking out its constant purr; in turn, that's the first thing I notice when returning home: the air is stunningly quiet.
This morning, along with Stefan & his mom, we threw together a luxurious brunch: cranberry scones, smoked salmon and cream cheese, artichoke frittata, grapes and sliced melon, blueberry muffins, and obligatory coffee. There was barely an inch left on the table.
Have a terrific start of a new week!
So, since when did Zeeks Pizza turn into a daycare center? It was as if there was a three-offspring minimum to get a booth. They had us surrounded from all sides: kids in sandals running with their mouths wide open. Kids strapped in highchairs, too young to absorb solid foods. Kids old enough to eat pizza but picky enough to refuse the crusts. This. is. not. Chuck. E. Cheese.
One of them began imitating a siren, and I literally had to cover my ears.
Although... one boy kept me entertained as I swallowed down an incredibly chilled mug of Mac and Jacks: he was on the other side of the windows, dancing as a rockstar, flinging himself against the glass at other youngsters inside. I don't know if he was trying to impress the ladies or had just woken up from a 15-hour nap; but man, that kid was on fire.
Anyway, the pizza was good, as usual.
The postscript: today this blog received its 500th comment. THANK YOU to all who have bothered to say something – it's the whole reason I keep writing. xoxo.
Jenna has the most gorgeous calligraphy. (Via Black*Eiffel.)
1. I'm in need of a new album to obsess over. Hints: lately I've been mostly listening to Ratatat, The Arcade Fire, and The National.
2. There are now three Rachel's at my work (including me).
3. My novel outline has reached 24 pages. It's shaping itself into these sub-genres: dysfunctional family, Asian American, satire (if I can pull it off), and confessional lit. It is not a memoir.
4. During work-related research today, I got my fill of ridiculous goat snapshots. This was one of my favorites. Oh, and this one.
Recent faves, Sartorialist style. (The photo on the left is simply beautiful because of its haphazardness; the one on the right captures outfits I'd actually want to wear.)
So, this morning:
Me: Do you think I should move my bicycle? The cat might climb on it.
Stefan: What? No, it's fine.
Me: But yesterday he was sniffing the tire.
Stefan: He was just curious. It's fine.
We walk into the hallway. Rufus is up on his hind legs, front paws on the tire, face smushed up against the bike. He's sniffing it, really enjoying its intricacies.
When he makes sure we're paying attention, he chomps down on one of the wires.
Stefan: I'll move it.
While doing a little research today, I learned that "beehives require almost no space." Really, now? Beehives are so compact they're close to being invisible, but no cigar? And then, being the little detective that I am, I found the same sentence on another website. I'm really hoping that the two are connected – as opposed to the copyrighter of the second website thinking, "Hey, this is a great selling point of these beehives! I'm stealing it."
Hi! I'm Rachel, and these are bits of my days and things I like. I run the online shops Elephantine and Mignon, am working on a novel, and live in Seattle with my husband and two cats. Read more about this blog...
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