It’s nice to live in a neighborhood. I just walked my dog and ran into two people and had two really nice conversations. That’s typical. But it is not wasted on me how really nice it is to feel a little bit Mr. Rogers about where you live.
I grew up in a small town where everybody knew each other, and although Brookline is a very different place, there is a small town feel to the part of it that I live in. While I am always droning on about the weather, and how we think about moving somewhere warmer, the connections I’ve made in this place would be impossible to ever replace.
See it’s filled with people my kids have grown up with, parents I’ve volunteered in school with, friends I’ve met who have become family, and a whole community with whom I’ve watched our children go from climbing the pirate ship at Emerson Park, to applying to college. This is something special. Sharing the history of your life.
I have the driest skin. “How dry is it?” If I woke up as a pile of ash in the center of my bed, it wouldn’t surprise me (it would probably shock the hell out of my husband, however).
Anyway, you’d think someone with such dry skin would try and drown herself in moisturizer, right? Nope. Not me. I have them, all of them, lined up pretty, but I rarely use them. Why? Becasue for some reason, it feels like it takes too much time (what a lame excuse, and yet, true), and leaves me greasy before I put on clothes. Yes, I tried the one with that you spray on and which is made for people like me, with that same grease-averse complaint (support group, guys?), but I didn’t like the smell.
Anway, just thought I would pass along, my latest find, in an effort to remain a stable body, and not the story of Hansel & Gretel, leaving a trail of dry skin in my wake. Nivea In-Shower Body Lotion is kind of great. You put it on in the shower, and then wash it off. And guess what? It seems to work. And there’s no gross greasy after-effects. And it’s not a big ticket item, you can find it in CVS. So, like, don’t be looking for parts of me on the sidewalk, I’m keeping my skin to myself.
In the department of shallow and useless. Showing that gratitude lives wherever you find it on any given day, damn I am happy about my new phone.
About six months ago, my iphone dove out of the back pocket of my jeans, escaping into the toilet for a swim, right before Peter and I were going to the movies. I attempted to bring it back to life by plunging it into a bag of rice, which I hoped would act ike an on-scene paramedic team, while I was watching the movie. When the film was done and I checked for a pulse, it was a goner. I did what any red-blooded American woman or man who has become totally dependent on technology would do, and went directly to the AT&T store for a new phone. I wasn’t excited about having a 6 in the least. I loved my little phone, and I especially loved the case, which I couldn’t duplicate in the larger size (why don’t they make cute plus size clothes, anyway?) In the morning, my 5 was working just like new. Ally, however was squawking about her cracked screen, and so we went back to the AT&T store, and switched identities, and that was that.
But recently, the phone has been acting wonky, running out of battery well before it should be, flickering on and off. I decided to make a pre-emptive strike and retire it. I stole my son’s upgrade (although the whole upgrade thing hardly matters anymore), and got myself a 6, and a bigger memory, too (which I could also use, but they do not do brain surgery at the AT&T store, but don’t think I didn’t ask).
Anyway, wow. I didn’t realize how really nice this phone is. Funny, how just six months ago I had no interest in it, but now, I’m all over having this new bit of computer wizardry. I am trying to take good care of this one, and have put signs up in all the bathrooms, “No Swimming.” 1-800-gratitude.
When you’re in the dark, the black, the blinding nothingness, it’s important to see where the light comes from.
Because even when it’s overcast, there are glimmers, tiny moments, small breaks when you can see horizon. Look toward those rays, those beams, those tinkerbell miliseconds. Look closely at those people who hold flashlights, candles, twinkly white lights for you to see your way. And get down on your knees and commit them to memory. They are the people who hold your future.
What Lady Edith should say to Lady Mary if she does not get her happy ending tomorrow night:
“Look bitch, yes we are unfortunately sisters, but who cares? Just means we share parents, and right now I’m kind of done with them, since they failed to teach you anything about manners, or good form. You’re nothing but a bully, a selfish, Kanye-esque narcissist. Sure you got the guy, but you know what? I give you about a year before Henry figures you out, and you have to go through a Kim Basinger/Alec Baldwin divorce. And if the magistrate is smart, they’ll give Master George to Barrows to raise. We are done, Lady Mary, although I hesitate to call you that, since you are not at all a lady. I am moving to America and leaving all this British crap behind. (That is, if Donald Trump is not the candidate.) Even Mr. Carson thinks I’m right. Remember, karma’s a bitch, just like you. Sayonnara, sister.”
Whole Foods just got a whole lot of shit for this. I pay their prices, so I feel entitled to make fun of them.
If looking good is the best revenge, Megyn Kelly got hers last night. She is really some kind of beautiful (not to mention very smart). The rest of the debacle, however, was ugly Betty. I could only watch two minutes, in which I saw at least eight of Trump’s pre-school faces, and had to turn away for fear of projectile vomiting on my new rug.
Mitt may have never secured the nomination, but he had his best political moment yesterday, with that anti-Donald (duck) speech.