Why is my real estate imaginary estate?

I am back, officially and with sad finality, from vacation. I used every last day, but I think that's as it should be.

I have come home from Oregon with pretty serious house envy. I hear yoga is supposed to help this kind of condition. I will consider it with the tiny bit of my brain that is not devoted to coveting the property of others.

In Portland, Ben and Stephanie have a very charming little house (which I think is officially meant to be called a bungalo, but as I do not know what really defines a bungalo, I will stick with "house") in a neighborhood overflowing with charming houses. They are currently living with a kitchen-in-progress, which creates a certain level of general discombobulation, but it will be lovely and bright and inspiring when it's finished. The fancy new refrigerator did arrive on the same day that I did and there was much rejoicing and drinking of cold beverages. Some of those beverages were consumed in the back yard because, well, they have a back yard. In back of their house. That they own. Yeah.

Fortunately, I had some practice with house envy before I visited Corvallis where Anne and Peter seem to have acquired a vast, sunny, beautiful house with a back yard of astonishing size. Had I not had practice, I might have gone into some sort of house-envy seizure and required costly emergency care. They seem to have five bedrooms, but they also have a full apartment over the garage, so if you visit them you could just stay there. That way, if you want to cook your own food, you can. However, I think I'd rather eat with Anne and Peter since their dining room is adjacent to the sun room from which there is a lovely view of the, ahem, grounds. I told Anne that my new mantra was going to have to be "I don't want to live in Corvallis. I don't want to live in Corvallis." Maybe I can incorporate that into the yoga. We'll see.

Le Retour

You know how there are things you're supposed to do regularly? Like going to the gym, for example? And how once you start to slip out of the schedule you suddenly aren't going at all and it gets harder and harder to go back because you sort of have to start all over again? Well, it turns out that having a blog is like that. Upon reflection, if you're me, pretty much everything is like that.

The good news is that coming back to the blog is still a great deal easier than going back to the gym because 1. I can do this sitting down and even, should I be so inclined, while having snacks and 2. Once I post this I can do a small victory dance because the achievement is instantaneous, unlike fitness which seems a very distant prize indeed.

Anyway, hello. Four of you tell me you read this and I'm sorry if you've been lonely without me.

We'll start small so as not to overwhelm ourselves.

Things I Learned on Vacation

In Los Angeles:

1. That theory that on a hot day you should drink hot beverages to somehow trigger your inner cooling mechanisms is absurd. If it is hot out, your inner cooling mechanisms are well aware of it and are already doing the best they can. Introducing recently boiled water into the system only confuses things.

2. Under certain conditions, Arianna Huffington's sister may give you a ride to the airport. Well, not you, maybe, but me. It will be somewhat awkward.

In Amherst:

1. The approved siren noise to make when you are playing any game related to firetrucks* is "Wee-oh Wye-oh! Wee-oh Wye-oh!" This should be repeated many times at top volume.

2. Babies can smile at you very contentedly, throw up on you without so much as blinking, and go on smiling in quite a winning fashion as though nothing has occurred.

3. In Britain, there are kinder, gentler children's programs including "Postman Pat" and "Fireman Sam."


*Note: All games, no matter how they may seem to begin, are evetually related to firetrucks.

In Transit:

1. If you attempt to fly out of Newark anytime between 8-9pm, you will be obliged to sit in the plane for one a minimum of one hour before the plane will be able to actually go into, you know, the sky.


In NY:

1. People who are in the act of buying theatre tickets cannot be assumed to actually like theatre. Example: A woman reaches the ticket window next to me after standing in a long line. She asks if tickets to a certain show are available. They are. She ponders this and asks "How long is the show?" The box office person says "An hour and a half." There is a pause. The patron says, "Don't you have anything shorter?"

2. There is nothing shorter.

3. Although they may be the most popular sites, there is no reason for sweating to be limited to your feet and armpits. Anywhere you have skin, really, is a good place for sweat.

Clarity

I am lunching with a four-year-old, her mother, and her aunt. When the mother comes back to the table with a small cup of soup and a small cup of cut fruit, it is the fruit that causes excitement. "Fruit!" the child exclaims, as if greeting a long absent friend.

Nevertheless, she is obliged to eat her soup first. "Finish your soup," her mother says, "and then you can have your fruit salad." The child ponders this for a moment and then says "Um...I'll just have the fruit. I don't eat salad."

It's official

You've probably been saying this anyway, but I thought you'd be pleased to know that yes, it really is a word.

plashy (PLASH-ee) adjective

1. Marshy; watery; full of puddles.

2. Splashy.

Star Struck

This is very old news now--for me, at least--but since I haven't told you about it, I guess it still counts as news for you.

On Saturday, April 29, I had occasion to see both Tilda Swinton and John Turturro live and in person in Kabuki Theatre #1. I was giddy.

Tilda Swinton is elegant and beautifully well spoken and smarter than us. She wore a high-necked grey striped suit, but she also wore bright red three-inch heels. For me she simultaneously inspired complete awe and a desire to put on a large woolen sweater and join her for tea and a long chat in her Scottish kitchen. The text of her meditation on the state of cinema is available now. You will simply have to imagine the shoes for yourself.

John Turturro is considerably less intimidating. He is, well, a little goofy. He was there for a screening of his star-studded musical Romance and Cigarettes. Yes. He has written and directed a musical. I hope you get to see it. At the beginning of the movie, he stood in the back of the theatre and watched. This put him just a few feet away from me, so I was able to watch him watch his film. Here's what I know: he likes it. A lot. He thinks it's pretty darn hilarious. He leaned back on his heels and laughed a big, crooked teethed, delighted laugh. I liked him enormously for it.