Oh. My. God. And that, my internet buds, is a prayer. A prayer for organization. A prayer to stop clipping. A prayer to recycle Paul Krugman columns instead of saving them. (I could, after all, just read his blog, The Conscience of a Liberal. ) A prayer to find CD jewel cases. Where do they go? Are they like that one sock in a pair? That one sock that scampers off when I'm not looking. Egads!
And speaking of deities: Thank God for Ella Fitzgerald. She calms me down. She reminds me that I should reach for perfection. Absolutely. Even if I never attain it. Even if I don't get past the first step on that particular stairway.
But. Chaos is not what I intended to blog about. Let me rein myself in. Whoa. Come back, Denise, come back. Your topic awaits you.
And that topic is . . . drumroll, boys and girls . . . Renee Zellweger's frocks. This, inspired by Amanda, she of the evocative sense of place, she of Still Life in South America.
Frankly. I hated Renee's Golden Globes gown. It shocked me. Completely. I did a double take. She's usually picture perfect. Elegant. Sleek. Perfection. (To use that impossible word again. I refuse to ban it from my vocab. Despite its unpopularity these days.) As is, for that matter, Carolina Herrera, who designed both of these dresses. The black one — the miss by several miles, heck, the miss by several solar systems — is the Golden Globes nightmare. The blue one, well, I'd love to have it in my closet. Love it. It's floaty. Dreamy. Flattering. To the nth.
So. What was Ms. Zellweger thinking? She obviously misplaced her unerring sense of style. Perhaps it's run off to join my socks, my Best of Julie London and Squirrel Nut Zippers Perennial Favorites jewel cases. Anyway. I hope she finds it soon. Perhaps she can also tell my socks to come back home. And the jewel cases.
Meanwhile. I'll let Ella's Harold Arlen Songbook console me. But. I've got a right to hang around down around the river. I've got a right to moan and sigh. Mr. Arlen says so. And he wouldn't lie. I know it.