An e-mail to my daughter, whose plane is currently taxiing to the gate in Newark:Subject: OH TAYLOR MOMSEN NO
Has she no mother to buy pants for her? Or a shirt, even? Is she not a millionaire at this point? How can she not afford a t-shirt and a sandwich?
Can Taylor Momsen crash in your room while you're in Israel so I can wash her face and feed her mac & cheese and teach her about pants?
Related: I miss her like crazy. Tomorrow will be worse because it will be 3:00 and she will not walk through the door. I managed to keep my shit together until she got on the plane, at least; they let us go through security with her and we mocked the crappy books in Borders and went "ooh" at a few good ones, and that was a good distraction.
Also, I lent her my first lace shawl; the pattern is called Travelling Woman, and I named the shawl itself Lady Vagabond. Fitting.