For those of you who were convinced that I have a summer cottage in Newport, I have a sad confession to make: I do not. I'm sorry, I should have told you to sit down first before breaking that jaw-dropping news. However, this weekend I did go visit the "cottages" I would have owned had I been born a socialite in the late 1800s. Yes, these were called "cottages":
A few of my girlfriends and I went up to CT for the weekend and on Saturday went to RI to do the "touring New Yorker" thing and fantasize about what our lives would have been like if we had been born into a different age and social class.
And now, the best for last:
The super came over but said that he couldn't do anything without a plumber, and he can't get a plumber here until the morning. I'm pretty convinced that by the am my ceiling will have collapsed, spilling a torrent of dirty water and cockroaches into my apartment.
I would stay the night at the boyfriend's to be safe, but he has to get up at 5:45 tomorrow for a photo shoot and also, if you have read my previous entry, you will see that his apartment is no longer as safe as it once was.
Maybe next year I'll be able to afford a quaint, 50 room summer cottage of my own.
A girl can dream.