There should be a word, a sniglet if you will, for the sensation of spotting an item on a rack at a charity thrift store -- say a pink, red, and tan neck scarf -- that you yourself donated. It's amazing how much your little item stands out from the similarly pilled items that surround it. The term should encompass that unexpectedly strong jolt of recognition you feel, and also encompass the sadness you feel on behalf of your item, rejected by you and still not yet adopted by a new owner, along with a twang of indignation over the implied criticism of your tastes.

There should also be a antonymic term for the elated sensation of spotting a tan version of your very favorite pair of black sandals, sandals you've worn everywhere from bars to weddings, marked down, down, down to $8.99 at RDFL! (Though, again, there's that small twinge of righteous indignation: how is it possible that these gems weren't snatched up two, even three mark-downs ago, what the hell?)

And then surely there is a word already for the short-short football shaped haircut that comes from visiting a new hair salon, finding your hair mistress to be infinitely more stylish and knowing than you are, causing you to talk too much, and too nervously, about almost everything but the kind of haircut (long, less sporting-equipment-y) that you actually wanted.

- - - - - -

Elsewhere: The red, red replacement for my perfect bag looms ever closer, the recapping of Desperate Housewives has started up again, and
McSweeney's Issue 17 is shipping momentarily. (Issue 17 comes with lots of highly exciting and confusing elements, including the "Tyrolian Harvest" sausage basket catalog that Marco and I built! Buy it now and save $5!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)