"Humble pie" was once nomble pie, a pie made of nombles, i.e., organ meat such as the heart, lungs, liver and intestines. The theory is that it went from "a nomble" to "an omble" and then was conflated with an entirely different word, humble.

I've refrained from commenting on the fact that she has worn the same dress everyday since April.

Good LORD. I had a boss who wore the same colors all the time, so it was a little confusing, but she usually didn't wear the actual same dress more than twice or three times in a week.

I am, per usual, covetous of ita's eyebrows.

I am also exhausted from my shopping trip. I did very good, pretty much only buying things I actually need, but I really can't resist looking at every single thing for sale at Target. Oy.

In metanalysis news, "mine Ed" turns into "my Ned." I guess that's not actually news, but it's all I've got.

Dear opera singer who moved into the apartment above mine,

I hate you.

Sincerely,

Allyson

I once lived above a person who was learning to play the violin. I hated her too.

Aw, Allyson, there should be a clause that on days off there should be no opera singing. Need to escape? We're going to Roscoe's to meet people at 6:00. Wanna come?

Man my right hip is hating me right now.

Same thing with Nell ("mine Ell[en]") and Nan ("mine Ann").

Not metanalysis, but the word "goodbye" came from the abbreviation of "God be with you".

I'm having a fun time poking around this site for history of the English language stuff.

Allyson, I am of the opinion that Roscoe's is the PERFECT celebration dinner.

Little ita's toddler butt is just so damn cute. 1980 ita is amazing for just how much she is already grown-up ita -- the eyes, the set of the mouth, the knowingness of her gaze: they're all exactly the ita I've seen over and over in grown-up pictures, and met (all too briefly) at the LA F2F. So present, so complete already.

The favorite poems... so good, so gorgeous. My own favorite poem, Google tells me, is nowhere online at all; it's called "Beauty," by Stephen Dobyns. It's long and horribly painful and grotesquely beautiful, and IMO in many ways it's a dark, bitter modern sister to my second favorite poem, and shit, now I'm crying, having read both of them.

And now, Nilly, the end of my second favorite poem will forever after also make me think of you, now that I know the Hebrew word for "orange."

Somebody tell me where the hell they got Sally from Sara. That one never made any sense to me.

I also wondered where Polly came from Mary (in Louisa May Alcott's The Old-Fashioned Girl they seem to think this is the correct nickname)