In which I get arty again.

blackbird has accused me of being arty. And while my first reaction is to say "Who, me?" my second reaction is to think, "Hey, why not? This is the internet. Anyone can be arty on the internet."

And it's true. Honestly, all you need is a digital camera, a Blogger account, and a Roget's Thesaurus for easy access to the occasional unusual word. (Tsk! See, that's all the proof you need that I'm old: young, hip arty bloggers don't use a thesaurus; they use the internet. Duh.)

So anyway, I've decided that artiness is the new drivel. And therefore, instead of my usual stream of ineffectual whimsicalities, I will tender you photos, a la dooce, with remarks that use DOOCE CAPS for HUMOROUS EMPHASIS or maybe just because I want to.

So settle back, dear readers, while I take you on a trip to lovely Falmouth, Massachusetts, where the Buxoms will go shopping under a Maxfield Parrish sky.



It's a beautiful day, so let's go hang around the used CD store! OK!



Inside Spinnaker (and HOW CUTE IS THAT NAME? I ask you) my family, culture vultures all, looked at albums.



I, on the other hand, being such a POP CULTURISTA, spotted this collectible Miss Yvonne figurine and immortalized it thus:



Unfortunately this doll doesn't convey even a tenth of the glamor that was Miss Yvonne in her heyday, so I left it on the ASH HEAP OF HISTORY.

At Puritan Cape Cod (which you have to love the name!) my daughter and I were dazzled by the Vera Bradley display. Oh, the colors! We bought a lot of stuff.



Then we walked back to the hotel. Past the town common. So here you go. The wonders of nature. The cuteness of history.



Yankee magazine, eat your mother-humping heart out.

We passed this house several times, and I just know that Martha Stewart would die, just die, if she spotted the baby PUMPKINS lined up on the PORTICO.



Which--just so you know--is the kind of word you can always check on the internet. No thesaurus needed.