"There's an actor and a musician on the eighth floor. They're drinking wine. Call the police."
--overheard last night at a gala premiere benefiting the Westchester Arts Council, in reference to me and Shiv.
"You'd just be an overly-dramatic couple. Seeing as how you're a 19th century farce and he's living in a Russian novel."
--B's comment during the wholly theoretical and wholly absurd conversation regarding the idea of my ever dating Seastreet. For the record, I think she was spot on. Besides, he'd prefer a girl.
"So that means if we dated it'd be like a Noel Coward play as revised by Fyodor Dostoevsky, which is a delightfully sick idea. 'Darling, could you bring me a martini?' 'Too busy pondering the meaninglessness of it all...'"
--Seastreet's reponse.
"Swim suit, check. Pants, check. Undies, check. Socks, check. Flip-flops, check. Bathroom stuff, check. Too many shirts, check. Book to read, check (the new David Sedaris, by the way, and I will let you know how it is). Garlic press, check. Citrus reamer, check. Tongs, check."
--Me, reading off my mental packing list. I simultaneously love and am horrified by the fact that I am packing my own garlic press.