See, already things are looking up. I blow off steam, I rant, and all goes back to normal, where it will remain until another of my drunken relatives calls me at midnight to drone wistfully about his unending search for the beloved kayak that was stolen from his childhood home in 1961, and I go off the deep end again. I believe this is what's called a vicious cycle.

OK, actually, I did really get a call like that, which totally exacerbated my irritation. The relative in question droned on and on about the kayak, or maybe it was a canoe--I don't even remember--and when I tried to offer words of advice, like, "PUT DOWN THE JOHNNIE WALKER AND LET THE FUCKING CANOE ISSUE GO, UNCLE TODD," but in nicer terms, stressing the importance of moving on in life BECAUSE YOU ARE ALMOST SIXTY FUCKING YEARS OLD AND THE CANOE WOULD BE ROTTEN INTO TOOTHPICKS BY NOW, he snorted impolitely and compared me unfavorably to our family's most out-there nutcase. "Oh, yah," he scoffed, "That's like that Auntie Lulu airy-fairy stuff," dripping with cynicism and attempting an Auntie Lulu impression in an unconvincing falsetto. All his comment did was serve to remind me why, exactly, I no longer visit that branch of the family.

But anyway. As I started out saying, things are looking UP.

First, Lorelei gave me a mountain of clothes, including great sweaters and this excellent My Flat in London t-shirt:

Yes, it's true that I have ragged on My Flat in London, largely for the hefty price tags, but hand me a free t-shirt of a bee in a crown, and I'll flip my opinion faster than a... clown, flipping in a circle. At the circus.

Lorelei also sent me a link to a whole lot of My Flat in London merchandise at a site called, like, Mommytown, or something. (Note: it is not actually called Mommytown.) The site features jeweled satin diaper bags and whatnot, for moms trying to retain their sex-kitten status, a plight I always find humoresque. I used to see them in San Francisco all the time, wearing tight leather pants and rhinestone hairpins, toddling down the street in D&G platforms, disaffectedly pushing black-clad infants in chrome strollers. It occurs to me that My Flat in London, or MFIL, is an anagram for everyone's favorite disturbing acronym, MILF. Coincidence? I think not.

Anyway, I'm not an M, that I know of, but you might still L to F me, once you see me in my MFIL Queen Bee t-shirt. In the words of Paris Hilton, "That's hott."

Star of the day. . .Dr. Pangloss