Dear Lover,
Jackson Pollock's paintings.
Curbside recycling.
Being so recently reunited with the Quaker Oatmeal Squares from my childhood.
Brother who has a direct line to my funny bone.
Road trips.
Midnight story inspirations.
Gypsy dancing.
Mother Mary's 100% attention.
Tetris.
Humming.
Kitchen tap dances.
Fairy Godparents.
The always unique, always surprising gift beneath the tree as a result of Father Darling's last minute Christmas Eve shopping excursions.
Big sweaters.
Bob Dylan.
My friend who lets me sniff the arms and necks of her two babies.
Henry David Thoreau.
The nick of a scar on Dorothy Parker's ear that always reminds me, when at my most annoyed with her for eating that plate of brownies I just slaved over, that she was once a pound puppy and deserves a plate of brownies every once in awhile for her long lost days of scrappy self preservation.
Orion.
J.K. Rowling.
The New York Time obituaries.
Camping.
Hiking.
My favorite musicians and the songs we sing together.
Really good rainstorms.
My passport.
Chocolate.
My dear friend who writes me letters.
The beach on cold days.
Andy Kaufman.
Loud family get-togethers.
National Parks.
My zinger-delivering friend, and her husband who always lets me outstay my welcome.
Sisters from another mister.
The Laughing Game.
Da Nico's Italian Restaurant in Little Italy.
Peonies.
The feel of crushed velvet couches.
M. Night Shyamalan films - even the bad ones.
Jobs that leave time for reading books.
The mysterious power of alliteration.
Skipping rocks.
Old photographs.
A good chocolate pie.
Sitting in an empty theater with a lap full of popcorn.
The expression, Pleased as Punch.
Musicals.
Chacos.
British accents.
The Food Network channel.
Poetry.
My excellent cloud puffing abilities.
Slapstick.
Christmas carols and holiday movies.
Pillows.
A good pair of jeans.
Early morning tea with a spoonful of honey.
Vintage furniture.
The sale room at Anthropologie.
Central Park strolls.
Apple Fig Newtons.
Harmonicas.
You.
Curbside recycling.
Being so recently reunited with the Quaker Oatmeal Squares from my childhood.
Brother who has a direct line to my funny bone.
Road trips.
Midnight story inspirations.
Gypsy dancing.
Mother Mary's 100% attention.
Tetris.
Humming.
Kitchen tap dances.
Fairy Godparents.
The always unique, always surprising gift beneath the tree as a result of Father Darling's last minute Christmas Eve shopping excursions.
Big sweaters.
Bob Dylan.
My friend who lets me sniff the arms and necks of her two babies.
Henry David Thoreau.
The nick of a scar on Dorothy Parker's ear that always reminds me, when at my most annoyed with her for eating that plate of brownies I just slaved over, that she was once a pound puppy and deserves a plate of brownies every once in awhile for her long lost days of scrappy self preservation.
Orion.
J.K. Rowling.
The New York Time obituaries.
Camping.
Hiking.
My favorite musicians and the songs we sing together.
Really good rainstorms.
My passport.
Chocolate.
My dear friend who writes me letters.
The beach on cold days.
Andy Kaufman.
Loud family get-togethers.
National Parks.
My zinger-delivering friend, and her husband who always lets me outstay my welcome.
Sisters from another mister.
The Laughing Game.
Da Nico's Italian Restaurant in Little Italy.
Peonies.
The feel of crushed velvet couches.
M. Night Shyamalan films - even the bad ones.
Jobs that leave time for reading books.
The mysterious power of alliteration.
Skipping rocks.
Old photographs.
A good chocolate pie.
Sitting in an empty theater with a lap full of popcorn.
The expression, Pleased as Punch.
Musicals.
Chacos.
British accents.
The Food Network channel.
Poetry.
My excellent cloud puffing abilities.
Slapstick.
Christmas carols and holiday movies.
Pillows.
A good pair of jeans.
Early morning tea with a spoonful of honey.
Vintage furniture.
The sale room at Anthropologie.
Central Park strolls.
Apple Fig Newtons.
Harmonicas.
You.
Love,
Me.
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