My little sister is the poor man's Catherine Zeta-Jones. I am the poor man's Drew Barrymore. Wynonna Judd is the poor man's St. Renegade. A lady at work who loves country--and who can blame her?--stopped by my desk to ask:

"You aren't going to be offended if I tell you something, are you?" Think yes, say no. "Every time I see you I think about Wynonna Judd."

And I asked why I would I be insulted? Later the panic began and I text messaged Fluffyhead Friend. She said that I should stop wearing petticoats to work. Ha ha. Fuck friends.

Sure, I see it with the hair and the bangs and the nose and the robust figure. But I don't wear foundation and I don't rock the dread Modern Country combo of cowboy hat and giant coat with back flap. My eyebrows are composed of tiny hairs! Not clay. Honestly, I'm the Ashley Judd--the crazy mom and daughter go off with their matching hair and obviously damaging codependency and I'm at Yale being smart and marrying a race car driver. Think Wynonna, go Ashley! Anyway. I should be so lucky. I don't have even one ex-husband, or Country Music Award, and she has seven of each.

In other news, I am less concerned with the concept of loneliness, and more concerned with the concepts of fear and action and Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT). I am also busy with the World's Greatest Punk Rock Choir, damaging my feet with hot hot heels, and sewing again. BFF was in town for a Good Times and Cute Boys Tour of Chicago; BC is coming soon, and may the magic continue!