Toodles, June

Do you know that a new set of bed sheets can set you back more than a hundred buckaroos?  I know this because I walked through half a dozen home sections of Manhattan department and discount stores only to find that every set that I even remotely liked cost that much.  After months of being unable to find something decent that wasn't printed with alligators or flowers, I finally settled for a set in plain, simple greyish purple.  At least that's what I thought.

After a wash and dry, they appeared darker than I remembered them at the store.  Too late, I thought, as I made my bed.  When bed time finally rolled around, I pulled back my comforter and frowned.  The sheets were even darker, incredibly dark, like a deep, deep violet.  They had this horrendous sheen that prompted me to read the little tag with the care instructions to see if I had accidentally bought satin or silk sheets.  I confirmed that they were 100% cotton, but that didn't change the fact that my bed looked fit for a gigolo.  It was so ugly that I seriously contemplated if it would be a spoiled American move to donate them to Good Will.  I forlornly decided that yes, it most certainly would be.  So for the past week, I've been sleeping in a male prostitute's bed.  And you know what?  It's really not much of an experience worth reporting on.  Only it must be, because I'm blogging about it.

Raunchy sheets, crushing DOMA, some real progress on American immigration reform, and the farewell of Google Reader.  It's been a big week here.

I'm digging these grainy night shots from my phone.