When I was little, boys were named Johnny and Randy and Kevin; they seem to have been replaced by Cody and Tristan and Brendon/Brandon/Brennan.
It's weird to think that my own name may some day be considered old-fashioned. Maybe it already is. I really don't know. Or care. 'Cause I'm that grouchy Old Lady Kim who leans out her window and shakes her fist at those pesky Jasmines and Parkers running across her lawn.
Dinner last night: spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic toast, green salad
Exactly one year ago: