At long last, after giving you more than ample reason to lie supine (that’s the one where you lie on your back) (the other one is prostrate not to be confused, with much rollicking hilarity, with prostate) in your hospital cornered bunk beds, eyes wide open, minds racing even faster than your hearts, corn niblet teeth gnawing at what’s left of the skin on your thumbs, I’ve decided the time has come to reveal the answers to the questions I posed 12 and 4 days ago, respectively, as follows:
With regard to the Flatiron question, I must say I was a bit disheartened when Pete (a friend from England who has shared with me, in the flesh, the tear-inducing wonder of a cookie from Levain Bakery, which I have mentioned here enough to earn me a free baker’s dozen), the first person to leave a comment, supplied the correct response: There’s no scaffolding anywhere on it! Although Jeanne (someone I do not think I have ever heard from before, but Jeanne, feel free to correct me if I am wr-wr-wr-wr-wr-wrrrro-oo-o-o-oong) suggested that Pete was wrong, indicating that there was indeed scaffolding in the photo, that small sampling was in the process of being dismantled by the man you can see standing on it if you squint hard enough to wring blood from your retinas or corneas or whatever is the source of eyeblood.
In the almost eight years that I have been closely acquainted with the Flatiron Building (okay, so we were more than just friends for a while, but that is not something Ronny and I like to spread around, so keep it on the QT, OK?), it has only been devoid of scaffolding perhaps twice. I always think this is a shame for tourists, who have no doubt seen the building in guide books and would like to get a snapshot of a scowling girl in white trousers passing in front of it without other unsightly distraction. So, obviously, I had plenty to cheer about to the two tourists I approached that day to tell them of their good fortune.
As far as my whereabouts this weekend goes, I was visiting my boyfriend’s family in northwestern Arkansas, the nation’s official Home Of No Good Thai Food. To the state’s credit, however, it boasts a rather fun farmer’s market where I ate a fudgy brownie, smooshed at least a dozen dogs (including Oggy and Greta from earlier this week) (more photos to phollow!), and got to pee in the cleanest public rest rooms this side of the Mississippi (or is it on the other side??); a store where I bought this dress (new question: guess my size!); and met a baby (the boyfriend’s five-month-old nephew) I deemed “the puppy of babies.”
So now you know and can finally get those eyes to shuttin’. (That’s my version of Arkanspeak.)