So Lisa Austin made lunch and I totally spaced out and came home to Mac after Gianna got out of school. It’s because I was thinking about a harp, how to make a harp and a beanstalk, and plus I had just had my roots colored and I’m not eating my goji berries.
More to come.
As soon as Eric sends me muffins and M. makes martinis.
A. forgot to take the kids this morning. Don’t worry, don’t worry, I remembered. They’re okay. Everyone’s a little rattled but we’ll all be fine.
Today is Anthony Trollope’s birthday and if I were having a dinner party, you know a “who I’d have to dinner” party, the kind where no one in the world is dead so I can invite anyone? I’d invite him.
I’d pour him a drink, put him in a big cushy chair, listen to him prattle on because he seems the type. I’d light his pipe, get his slippers, nod and agree and smile. Then when conversation lapsed a bit and he was leaned back and puffing I’d ask him how the hell he put out 3,000 words a day, every day. I’d fill up his drink, lean in with wink and nudge and say, “Tony. Come on buddy, come clean. You had a ghostwriter, didn’t ya?” Then I’d ask him what he thought of the Yankees this year.
Hey, Mambo. Mambo Italiano. Hey Mambo, don’t want to tarantella.
Be good. Do less work. Stop cutting people off in the left lane.
Buon Venerdi.
… That picture’s there (below) for no good reason. The one I meant is on my computer, my computer’s in a little room in Sherwood, Sherwood is a town in Oregon about 16,000 big and it’s nine miles from Dundee. Dundee is five minutes from the woman with the self-cleaning house.
I have 274 stress points — 26 more and I’ve a good shot at getting ill! Wait, I feel ill right now. The carpet makes me ill, I think I’m ill.
“Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age,” said James Joyce. “Hmmm,” I replied. “I believe I’m withering.”
