Here are the rules: Two of these entries were written by other people, one of them was written by me. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to identify the one I wrote (use the comments section).
If the author of one of the artificial blog entries gets the most votes, he or she will receive a prize and instant celebrity.
If the entry I wrote gets the most votes, I get the eternal satisfaction of knowing I can never be replaced.
Remember, you’re voting for the one you think I wrote, not the one you like the best. These will undoubtedly not correspond. And let’s keep things civilized and limit it to one vote per person.
Hmm . . . there are no convicted felons around here, are there?
Entry One
The most stressful thing about living in Baltimore for Goblin is that she can no longer go to Central Park and play with her friends, the squirrels. She misses Pashmina most particularly. In Baltimore, we have no Central Park. One would think that we might have squirrels anyway, but one would be wrong. We have a singular squirrel, who very occasionally runs up or down the tree in our backyard. Goblin spends hours at the screen door, her ears standing at attention, her little body quivering in anticipation of the arrival of the squirrel, whose name she does not know yet. There are many days on which that anticipation is not fulfilled.
The most stressful thing about living in Baltimore for me is my fear that the crazy people who lined my path in New York will realize I have left and follow me. They will arrive on my doorstep expecting me to welcome them. I will be paralyzed by terror and let them into my house, and then all hell will break loose. I do not want all hell to break loose. And so I spend hours at the door, my ears standing at attention, my little body quivering in anticipation of the arrival of a crazy person, whose name I do not know yet. There are many days on which that anticipation is not fulfilled.
Entry Two
Yesterday the darling Donna Beth came over for cocktails and conversation. She complimented Rob and me on our impeccable taste, which we've come to expect by now, but we were able to blush modestly nonetheless. She did threaten to turn us in to local authorities if we don't make the place ten percent quainter by August. It seems there are local statutes governing that sort of thing. I am shaking in my shoes.
I'm thinking of changing Goblin's name to Arugula Picard, Drill Team Captain, but I fear that such a promotion might swell her little head.
Entry Three
Yesterday, Goblin and I encountered a crazy person. We knew he was a crazy person because he was wearing black socks and white shoes. “I like your little dog,” he told me. “Usually little dogs bite my feet right away, but this one didn’t.” This was damning with faint praise as far as Goblin and I were concerned.
On the way home, we saw a black cat sitting alone in the middle of a circle of white paper plates, as if a black magic ceremony had gone dreadfully wrong.
