Well, my all-time favorite Secretary of the Treasury, Donald Regan, finally passed, or so I hear from the nuns on the bus. “He who signed the money” is perhaps as he’ll be known. Reuters is reporting that he died with love in his eyes, though for all I know, it might have been nickels or cigarettes. If he hadn’t dumped his first wife, Jane Wyman, maybe he would’ve garnered a third term. But now that he moved to Bhutan, the world may never know.
Some people have lately been asking me about my name. Well, I think I’ll tell you, because it’s better than eating pizza: “Katie” means one who Ks, as in “that Donald Regan, when he was in the gubment, he was such a Katie—I mean, did you see his socks?” I personally am not a Katie, except that’s my name, but I do like the fashion. Toft means “hillock.” Really, it does, you can look it up . . . I guess this means that I often K on the hillocks, though that’s not really true. I don’t ever go to the mountains, except when I fly over them, but usually I’m listening to Ani and Tori and reading Clive and thinking about Charles, so I don’t look at the hillocks. Or think about my name. I don’t know what K-ing is, by the way, except that Katies have good socks. Did you ever see Donald Regan’s?
Ok, tally-ho, cheers. I’m going to eat some sushi and watch Buffy and order room service.
Kisses,
Katie
