Everybody I know ilkes to ask me about Graham. They ask, “what does she want?” – I always answer the same way, “I don’t know.” I told Graham I was going to get a tee shirt that says “I don’t know what Graham wants, so don’t ask me.” But we decided just “I don’t know” would suffice.
I spoke with a source of mine who is around the same age, married with two children. We talked about this age – the 40s – and how it is a weird and wonderful time. I said I don’t even relate to who I was in my thirties, it’s like I relate more to the person I was in my 20s. She said she felt the same way – except she feels like a 20 year old boy instead – she is enjoying drinking, flirting and edgy sports. I told her I wanted to go to surf camp – she had just gotten back! I told her my body was in the best shape (except right at this moment when I haven’t been able to exercise because of my feet) and she said she has 15% body fat and works out every day. I said when I’m riding my bike I look for the hills, the bumps, so that I can daredevil – she said I so understand.
I stepped off the merry go round today and that only reluctantly but I felt as if I was getting dull. My mind was gravitating towards the same things, the path of least resistance, the thought of no consequence, and the action that is rote. Caught up in contentment, you tend to grow dull – fat and happy – resistant to new ideas.
I realized I want to do this book and so I recontacted some people to try to make that happen. When L returns with Jake, I am going to set up a playdate to pick him up once a week because I enjoy his company. Abby too.
My world was suddenly growing small – Midcity, Swirl, La Vita – and I realized my frames of reference are shrinking. So I need to work on enlargement, not containment.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2007/04/12/meet-katie-courics-33ye_n_45671.html
Katie’s gone cougar on us – she’s pretty, rich, smart and now she has a boytoy.
Money trees are arriving in droves these days – first the mysterious one appeared then today Flower sent me one as a house warming gift.
When I was at the Can, it made sense to walk around the bayou in the morning, but now that I am in the LaLa and adjusting to my foot recovery, I’ve changed my path and oh, what a difference to me. The past two mornings, I’ve been walking across the Magnolia Bridge and then circling back on the Esplanade Bridge to enter City Park. Recently, someone donated 7 swans – 2 blacks ones – to the park and the black one has been illusive. As a matter of fact, G wondered, maybe they’re not really black it’s the eyes that are black.
This morning, Arlene and I first came across the Anhinga in the tree drying its wings (there is still debate on whether these are Comorants). He was there yesterday. Then we saw the white swans grooming themselves on the bank of the lagoon. Then the white (because he’s immature) Little Blue Heron flew off the banks. As we circled around there was a Black Crowned Night Heron nestled in a dead tree, the poof of his crown bobbing up and down in the slight wind. He’s blue though, but his marking are more of the Crowned than the Blue Heron.
And then, as we were coming across the bridge to the other side of the lagoon, where the massive oaks spread their thick drooping branches across the walking path and grass, moss hanging like a stage set, there stood the illusive black swan in all its regalia.
When I got back to the LaLa, Ms. Marie was in front and she said, as she has said before, where else can you live in a place like this, and I smiled. She’s been here 93 years and feels that way. Bodes well.
I don’t know if it is my age or if major things are just happening in my life. But it seems to me that the recovery period is taking longer for everything than I would anticipate.
Broken heart – forgetabout it – you don’t get over it, you get through it.
Broken marriage – the F remains on your marriage score card for life and I have three Fs thus far – one that really mattered.
Broken foot – the doctor said, we’ll do the surgery on Friday and you’ll have Saturday and Sunday to recover. Right. It’s 5 weeks later and I am allowed to wear my shoe for an hour and still walk with a limp.
Broken dreams – New Orleans is going to need at least five years to recover, maybe 50 years, maybe a lifetime, maybe this is recovery, who knows?
I just got my tax bill (CROAK) – that is the sound of me gasping for air. I asked my accountant what the hell? and the response – you are filing single now. Good grief – is it not penalty enough to give up good sex three times a week that now I must also give up the equivalent of the cost of a brand new GMC Denali?
When I signed the closing papers for my refi, the new mortgage paper reads Rachel E. Dangermond, A Single Woman. What goes on?
Maybe I need to have that branded on my forehead – SINGLE – to make sure everyone knows for sure my marital status.
I bought a tasting ticket at Swirl last night but could not get to it because of the line I refused to get in – also M had wine he wanted me to try so we proceeded to drink some fabulous Italian wine and then the Alto Montcayo that is so special to me as that is what Beth and Kerry got me when I moved into the LaLa. I went back though, at K’s insistence, to try the Syrah since Mr. Eberle himself was pouring, but when I walked up to him, S popped up and moved him out of the way and said “I’ll handle this one.” She got me on that, I couldn’t stop smiling.
Then we went to La Vita where F and I got all caught up in the whole M & me scene that seems to make everyone connected to it crazy – it’s our current drama – it all has to do with the laws of attraction.
The highlight though was when I moved over to dance with G and she always needs a little bit of a runway to dance because of how she moves front and backward – and we both at the same time looked over at the kitchen window to see that gorgeous hot young Spanish boy staring at us and we broke up laughing because he was so cute and we both started singing “How much is that Spanish boy in the window?” – bad girls, what can I say?
A lot – I quote from a poet – Lorenzo Thomas – perhaps – I don’t have the name written down:
Bad women
Know good men
Are hard to find
And don’t believe
In working hard themselves
When girlfriends come around
Be careful what you tell
Don’t let anyone start counting
What you’ve got on your shelves
Good women get what they want
And the man that comes with it
Bad girls don’t want
For anything at all
R is going to be in a play on Saturday where she represents a mother whose daughters won’t leave the flock and so at one point she gathers them to her and says okay I don’t have much left to teach you so I’ll teach you how to knit. So R enlisted N to come teach her at Swirl last night and pretty soon a gaggle of girls, me included, gathered around to knit since most of us haven’t picked up needles and yarn in a long time. And it was addicting. Then we turned to bras – as I just got fitted in NY for these premo bras and Y has been looking for similar since she has the same issues. And then we talked about purses and men and waxing. Playboy? Brazilian? Mullet? By the time we had passed the piece of wool twice around we had covered a lot of ground and had enough to make a doggie scarf.