I purely hate holding patterns. I have absolutely nothing to do...no movies, no TV shows, no transcription work. Nothing. Yes, I know I can clean my house, and I actually made some tiny strides in that direction today. I cleaned the cat litter box, I got a few pieces of ironing done, and I hemmed the two new pairs of jeans that I bought like a month ago. Oh, and I got some nice deposits of cat shit off the floor. Aren't you glad you know this? And if you think I allow the cat shit to just sit on the floor, you're wrong. What happens is that I go out (I do occasionally go out) and the cat shits, and by the time I get home it's dry, so it no longer smells and I don't see it...until I go hunting for it. Which I did today, to an extent. And cleaned it up.
Actually, I did get out this week, which I REALLY couldn't afford to do, but my friend Tracy is in town for a week and was spending the evening bartending at her favorite spot (hey, that's what she wanted to do...who am I to argue?). So I went over there and had a couple of beers to say hello.
But I'm actually getting out of town for the holiday weekend! My pal Philippe, he of the one woman show, has a house out in Connecticut which is occupied, as far as I can tell, by his ex-wife and their daughter. It was evidently the most amicable of divorces, since he's always popping out there. And this weekend he's giving a party for the 4th of July, to which I am going. Now normally this is the sort of thing I would skip at the top of my lungs, because I have an odd form of claustrophobia...I really, really, dislike going to parties that I can't hail a taxi from. Or call a car service. You know, like Brooklyn. (Yeah, I know I could, in fact, arrange for a car and driver to get me to and from Connecticut, but as I don't happen to be a member of the Trump family...) It tends to make me feel terribly trapped. I don't know why, since I have no trouble bouncing off to Europe for weeks on end. Just one of my weirder quirks, I guess. I've found that there are actually a fair amount of totally urban types like me who have the same problem, which at least makes me feel I'm not A. alone or B. insane. It probably comes from living in a city all one's life, where a car is neither necessary nor (where do you park it? where do you drive it?) desirable.
However, this particular party has a swimming pool at it! Since it's going back up to the 90s this weekend (and, God help me, staying that way all week), this sounds like an excellent idea. Not to mention the fact that according to Philippe, there are going to be lots of industry people around, so I'm fetching along a handful of business cards. Never let an opportunity (or a swimming pool) go by!
Sarah, God bless her, forced me out of the house and bought me a new bathing suit. I didn't actually see the necessity of this until I hauled out my old one. Now I'm not a beach person, I don't take tropical vacations, and I'm not a sunbather because my skin is naturally a charming fish belly white, and as close to a tan as I get is a sort of yellowy beige that makes me look jaundiced. Or else, of course, a roaring sunburn. The only place I ever wear the bathing suit is in France...and if we have a cold summer there, or if my personal economy precludes a European vacation, the bathing suit doesn't even come out of the drawer. The result of this is that I have a 15 year old bathing suit. This doesn't bother me at all, since the only place I ever wear the thing is Yvoire, where a housedress and slippers is considered the height of fashion. But when I pulled it out this time, I discovered that due to the rocks where we swim in France, the seat of the thing is about one layer of fiber away from splitting altogether. This, I feel, is something to be avoided. I am not of an age where my naked ass peeping out is in any way something to be desired. So I now have a nice new black and white bathing suit...thank you, Sarah!
Of course, I could wish she hadn't led me through Macy's and JC Penney yelling at the top of her lungs, "You can't wear that, Mom! You're 65 years old!" I'm gonna have to watch this kid, or she'll have me in elastic waist pants and flowered tunics any old day now. If she's not nice to me, I'll wait until some really important occasion (like her wedding) and turn up in a pink polyester pantsuit worn with a tasteful string of matching pink popit beads and equally matching pink jogging shoes. And a really BIG pink handbag. And blue hair. Hee, hee, hee. After which, I will of course race to the ladies' room and return in fire engine red cut up to my crotch and down to my navel with matching four inch red spike heels. Gotcha!