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He's home and I feel the spontaneous need to break out into a little motown number. "Oh yeah....he's home....can you hear it?......he's home..." with some really good back-up singers of course. "How about we all go to see 'Knocked Up' this afternoon?' he says. Oh, a man after my own heart.
One of the hens, probably Muffin, started clucking in an alarmed voice at about 3:30am. I went outside to see what was going on with my able companion, the dalmatian, who barked twice half-heartedly and ran back inside to her cozy warm spot on the sofa. So much for guard dogs. J's theory is that Muffin was trying to scare a rat, but I don't buy it. He watches too many movies.
I am trying to get my head around the fact that we have been married for 19 years on Monday, June 11. I met him in November of my twentieth year. I was a spring chicken. So was he. Or whatever the male equivalent is of that, without sounding lewd. This morning I woke up to find him staring at me smiling, "you are so beautiful" he says as I lie there awash with morning breath and frizzy hair and I think to myself, this isn't the time to make a joke, be gracious, be serene, but all I can think is why I didn't brush my teeth when I was up at four. "I nearly died yesterday" I say. "I'm not making it up." (I wonder who in my life told me that I made things up!). "I know," he says, "that would have been the worst day of my life." It's sweet isn't it? He's off to ride his bike now and I'm grumpy, like post-traumatic stress. He's been gone so long that I just want him to stay here so that I can stare at him and ponder our hideously long marriage and wonder what on earth we still see in each other. Actually, it doesn't take long to figure that one out, for me anyway. This is very nice. Very nice indeed.
The more I think about it, the more I think that if Paris Hilton were my daughter, I would be terribly, terribly upset. Not with the jail per se, but with the yo-yoing to and fro-ing from person to person they're doing as if she were some godawful public relations football. It's humiliating. Truly. Allow her some dignity and have her serve her time. She's a tough girl; she has a good work ethic. But for goodness' sake don't make her into a political pawn. Let's face it, LA let OJ go free, so are they trying to make it up to us in their treatment of this poor little girl. Yes I despise her and all she stands for. But I don't like to see anyone humiliated this way. Not good, this whole situation, not good at all.
Difford & Tilbrook have reunited and Squeeze will play (hopefully WITH the dreamy Jools Holland) at the Beacon Theatre in NY August 3. Chances I'll go: zero. How much would I love to go: A lot (A lot, a lot as Lindsay Lohan says in "The Parent Trap" before her world collapsed).
Paris is out of jail due to the impending doom of a nervous breakdown. We, all Angelenos, are the laughing stock of the world. And do I blame them? No. She will never now be able to experience the exquisite cartharsis of falling back into the loving arms of the once sneering public twenty three days from now. No more Joan of Arc for you my dear.
Should I worry that I can hear my son's car approaching almost two blocks away due to his new serious sub woofer woofer woof speakers? No? They are alarming. I dutifully sat in his car so I could "try out" his new system unaware of course that my eardrums could be wrecked for life and his very possibly are already. I am sure that good parents sit there and ooh and aah and think of lovely things to say and i did try, truly i did, but I was just a little lame. I mean, what do you say? If you're not a boy, I mean? And hard-wired for things like sound systems.
"Here’s another thing to consider. If you always wanted to write, and now you are A Certain Age, and you never got around to it, and you think it’s too late…do please think again. I watched Julia Glass win the National Book Award for her first novel, “The Three Junes”, which she began writing in her late 30’s. I listened to her give her moving acceptance speech, in which she told how she used to lie awake at night, tormented as she worked on her book, asking herself, “Who do you think you are, trying to write a first novel at your age?” But she wrote it. And as she held up her National Book Award, she said, “This is for all the late-bloomers in the world.” Writing is not like dancing or modeling; it’s not something where – if you missed it by age 19 – you’re finished. It’s never too late. Your writing will only get better as you get older and wiser. If you write something beautiful and important, and the right person somehow discovers it, they will clear room for you on the bookshelves of the world – at any age. At least try."
-- Elizabeth Gilbert, On Writing
I hate Tripod. I hate that they make things so difficult. So, because it's a new day, I'm moving over to blogger. From now on I will double post. Check out the new site here:
love & kisses, dear ones
I've just gotten publicists tummy. It's that nervous I-think-I-might-throw-up sensation in the pit of your stomach. It's not actually unpleasant, probably because I'm so used to it. But I haven't had it for years. Today, this morning, I wrote a press release for a friend, and there it is! How strange. How truly strange.
Two sleeping sick children. Not too sick to eat apricot pie with cream though, while watching HOUSE I might add.
Mr H, how is tv guide? And how come you no check in wid me no mo? Has my domestic tedium gotten the better of you? Did Jerry Garcia visit you in a dream?
Norway, somewhat irritatingly, seems to be in the zeitgeist. This week Oslo features in The Week as one of the five European cities worth a visit, and Conde Nast Traveller has an article about the country as if written by a born-again Scandinaviologist. Here is what he writes about Tjome. Ours is one of the "cute cottages" in the hills he refers to here:
On June 23—Midsummer's eve—Laura and I decided to make like the locals and see some of the countryside. We rented a car, headed for the highway, joined a long line of Volvo and Opel station wagons with mountain bikes strapped to their roofs, and drove through no fewer than nine tunnels. We were headed south, to a farm called Engø Gård, near Queen Sonja's cottage on the island of Tjøme, where she used to frolic in the hay as a child.
These days it's not a farm anymore. It was converted into a luxurious resort in the mid-1980s. The barn is still standing, only it's a restaurant now. We ate dinner in the hayloft, under notched ash beams set in place in 1905. The chef, Per Hallundbæk, is Danish. Fifteen years ago, it would have been unthinkable for a chef to seek his fortune in Norway. But if you go to any decent Norwegian restaurant today, there's a good chance your waiter will be from Sweden or even France.
After dinner, Per took us for a cruise around the archipelago so we could see the bonfires burning on the pink granite shoreline, and we admired the cute cottages perched in the hills above. They weren't quite huts, but neither were they McMansions. We made our way farther out toward the open water of the fjord and at one point passed a barren stretch fittingly called "the end of the world." But then the boat began to bounce over big, mean waves, and Per turned back for the friendlier waters of the archipelago.
(c) Mark Schatzker, Conde Nast Traveller, June 2007
Sunset over Tjome, June.
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