you know, it's like a marathon of stuff to be grateful for.
Summer in September.
Watching my daughter play soccer after recovering from ACL surgery.
My dog. In a chair, on a walk, in my face.
Babies.
An unexpectedly sweet text.
That first sip of coffee.
Anytime the president makes an ass of himself (this is an everyday occurrence).
Bare Sparkle Bobbi Brown lip gloss.
Sneakers.
The last gasp–fall flowers.
Dental floss.
Yoga.
Anytime I get to talk to my kids.
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Take a stand. Take a moment to reflect on what you believe. Take a shot at being the change you want to see going viral. Take a minute to remember we are all the same underneath, that we all have massive dreams and giant hopes. Take a look at how tiny we are, but how big our ideas can be. Take a break. Take a walk and consider that our country has been built on the inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Take a minute to be in nature and remember that we, together, are all we have. Take a breath. Take a step. Take a knee.
Dear Sean Spicer,
No. Just no. You do not get to lie to the American people, blatantly, like a high school freshman caught replacing the stolen Grey Goose with water in their parent’s liquor cabinet, and then expect those same people to laugh, haha, when you try and pass it off as no biggie.
No. Just no. You do not get to work for a man who lies regularly, spits venomous hate at nearly all groups, who is making our country look like the Mickey Mouse Club, if the Mickey Mouse Club regularly lied and promoted hate. Not on my watch.
Nope. No way are you going to try and pretend like your tenure at the White House was some sort of drug-addled, golden handcuff situation where you just couldn’t leave. Not buying your lack of character or patriotism, man. You made our president’s lies seem like truth, degraded our press and pretended you were just doing your job.
No. Nonono. You can’t know go on your apology tour and position yourself as having a great sense of humor about yourself to get on our good side. “Oh that Sean Spicer, he’s a good egg.” NO. This is not happening. You are an accomplice, dude, and NO.
You can keep trying to get us to believe there was some sort of coercion, or blackmail that made you remain Press Secretary for a full six months, throwing your childish tantrums and lying like a corpse, but no deal. There are no alternate facts, only facts. There is no confeve, you idiot. You are complicit. The end.
Gratitude goes to those whose eyes remain open to the sleight of hand this administration continues to try and pass off. No. Just no.
I just have to tell you before I begin that last night’s Emmy’s was a thrill over here at casa de trashin’ de fashion’. My besties sister is Ann Dowd, and I have hung out with her many times. She is nothing short of the nicest person you have ever met in the entire world, including your mother. Seriously, this is a stellar human being, which tells you what an A-list actress she really is, because she is nothing like the parts she has become known for. Anywho, Deb and her family came over to watch and Ann, who’d been nominated for two Emmys, one for a guest appearance on the Leftovers, and one for The Handmaid’s Tale, had already found out in an earlier off-air Emmys that she had not won for The Leftovers, which is hard to swallow, because Patti Levin–seriously. Anyway, we were thrilled just to see her on tv, although we had zero expectations of her winning because the press had not even given her any odds at all, but then, well you know what happened, and my house erupted into an outburst of screaming that must have made my neighbors think Peter was murdering me dead. My dog practically dialed 911. We watched it over and over again. We just could not believe what was happening. And neither could Ann, apparently, who gave the loveliest speech. Ann has been a working actress for decades and she has a body of work, which would impress a curmudgeon, plus she has three kids, including a son who is just 12. And I’m telling you, there is not a nicer, more modest, or warm person anywhere. Ok, that’s enough, but seriously, it was an epic night. And fucking yay for Ann.
And now for the worst, how could you, get a mirror, or a new stylist list of those who might have some regrets this morning.
Ariel Winter. Modern Mess.
Hailey, how could you have let your tv sister out in this disaster? One too many slits is just not working in her favor. A little desperate, a little trashy, a lot wrong.
Claire Foy. You’re not really the Queen.
I love this young, fresh face, but what’s with the stupid royal train coming off her shoulder? Thinking how cute this would be without that piece of fabric to have to worry about. No crown for this look.
Carrie Coons. Wish this dress had disappeared with her Leftover’s family.
Oh no. As a girl who loves tulle and Carrie Coons, it pains me to tell you how much I hate this dress, not to mention this hair. She looks like she has a billowy uniboob. It’s like a Valentine’s day disaster. Nothing I like here. I’m going to avert my eyes now.
Samantha Bee gets an F.
This is a hard color, but in addition am I wrong or do all arrows point to her vajayjay? We got it, you’re a woman, but I am not green with envy.
Debra Messing-ed up.
How did this happen? Usually on fleek, this fashion girl normally gets it perfectly right, but this year she looks she got caught up in some shiny wrapping paper and couldn’t get out of it.
Unidentified Ugliness.
This is not a color anybody should be wearing anywhere anyhow. But if you’re going to wear it, do not wear pink shoes. I don’t know who this is, and I don’t want to know.
How can it be wrong if it’s Michelle Pfeiffer.
Michelle is so gorgeous it hurts my eyes, but the cut of this dress was so off. I felt like her boobs should be above the seam, or below the seam, but instead, they just seemed to be nowhere.
Big Little Mistake.
I love the cut of this dress, but in a fabric that didn’t appear to move at all, she seemed overwhelmed by it. I, however, was not.
Heidi Klum. Project Ugly.
She looks a little hunched over here. Could it be her earrings, which are the size of the world? And let’s discuss, do her boobs look good here? I know four kids, but can’t we help those girls stand up for themselves?
And the less fun, but damn it, the best.
Jessica Biel-utiful.
Easy, breezy, wowza. This dress is the definition of effortless. Soft and flowy, this number slayed. And the hair was perfection, too.
No stranger to fashion.
She’s 13, but she knows how to dress. I am a sucker for tulle, so this spoke to me, but she just looks adorable.
Kiernan Shipka grows up and sparkles.
This girl has grown up before our eyes on Mad Men, and so has her fashion sense. What a gorgeous dress–young and easy, and as fresh as her 17-year old face.
Kathryn Haan. I have never met a polka dot I didn’t love.
The dots make it fun, but the fabric makes it formal. And it’s transparent how comfortable she is.
Hillaria Baldwin. Everything’s coming up roses (or you know, some kind of flower).
I’m not even a flower print kind of girl, but there was something about the ease of this dress that made me swoon. Nice movement and lovely flow. And hair is on point.
Jane Fonda. I’ll have what she’s having.
Glam slam! Seriously, she is 79. Yes, she’s had work, but it’s good work–she looks like herself. I loved this whole thing. I know the pony is a bit adolescent, but she got me.
Viola Davis gets it right AGAIN.
Damn it, she never misses. She has been killing the carpet for years now. She always has a body con dress that hugs her like a BMW hugs a turn, and makes her look like modern Hollywood queen. A+.
So, last night, amidst the news of hurricanes, wild fires and earthquakes, I got the other end of Mother Nature–a farm to table dinner at the oldest working farm in Boston, Allandale.
A dinner like this has always been on my bucket list, but one of those things that I never seem to get tickets to. My friend flagged me months ago, when September seemed too distant to actually plan for, but I was happy to click on “buy” and have something to look forward to throughout the summer. And last night, the crew from Outstanding in the Field and the Chef Tony Maws from Craigie on Main created a dinner I’d like to have every night for the rest of my life.
We were told that it’s a tradition that each person bring their own plate so that each place setting would be unique. They washed your plate after dinner and you retrieved it on your way out. (I wish this happened in my house after dinner.)
First appetizers, beer and wine in a grove of pine trees. Then a little walk around the farm to learn about its crops with John who has been farming the land for the last 35 years and had retired only the day before. And then, we were lead to a long table for all of us to sit, all 175 of us, in a field that was as promised, outstanding.
From the onion dip that I wanted to bathe in, served with baby tomatoes and Iggy’s crusty bread to the spectacular everything-in-the-garden salad with tomatoes the size of my head and feta dressing, to the special spicy tomato soup I had in place of the Portuguese Stew everyone else was served, on account of fish makes me vomit, to the main course of short ribs rubbed in a myriad of spices with a kick-ass sauce and onions and eggplant and carrots to the grilled carrot cake, all paired with beautiful wines, we were all dizzy with delight and satiated not only by the beautiful food, but also by the gorgeous nature that surrounded us.
The servers were friendly, gracious, knowledgeable and solicitous. The setting was out of a Pinterest board. The weather was perfection.
Darkness finally came and we were lead back to our cars by a path of candles. To say it was a perfect evening wouldn’t even come close. Gratitude for Mother Nature’s good mood, good friends and good food. Oustanding. Really.
I wrote this a few days ago, on my anniversary.
I have been married for 30 years today. That is 360 months, 1,260 weeks, 10,950 days, 262,800 hours, 15,768,000 and 946,080,000 (but who’s counting).
I’m going to tell you two things. One: My marriage is not perfect. Two: No marriage is perfect.
Having been married all those years is kind of an accomplishment, I think. Because to do so meant not giving up or in. It meant steadying the ship when there were tsunami-like waves, digging deep when things felt worse than sand in your bathing suit bottom, and staying in it because of one thing: your commitment.
Love is dreamy, love is better than swimming in chocolate. Even a good plate of pasta pales in comparison. But it’s commitment that wins the day. It’s commitment that makes a marriage unbreakable.
I am no picnic. I can be moody, bossy, demanding and emotional. I have had back problems since I met my husband. I have migraines. I had infertility and do not ask about menopause (DO NOT).
My husband is an easier person than I am. But he has his faults too (plenty of them, by the way). But honestly, it amazes me that ANYBODY could possibly stand me for this amount of time! And that, in a nutshell, speaks to Peter’s good nature. And to how lucky I am to have found him. And a good hunk of why our marriage has endured.
We are dramatically different people. I am all out there and open– ask-me-and-I’ll-tell-you. Peter is much more private, extremely smart, intensely thoughtful and very steady. I am talkative and exuberant. He is an academic, a science nerd, a student. Ask me anything about popular culture and you’d think I got my PhD in it. He is happy anywhere. I am finicky and fussy and always like things to be pretty. He is insanely optimistic and easily overlooks the bad. I am a recovered pessimist and am able to see reality with clear vision.
BUT what we share is a commitment to one another and to our love, our life together and our kids and our dog. We are MAD for our kids. We have the same values. We have influenced one another in ways that have benefitted both of us. He’s more social because of me. I’m more grounded because of him. We both love to laugh, we adore movies, theater and good food. We cannot get enough of our children. We value good politics, good friends and good beaches. We adore travel, and just hanging out on our couch under furry blankets binge-watching a great series.
And I’ll tell you something honest, during a rough patch, I will think, “I’m done, I CANNOT,” and I want to take the potato peeler to his nose and call a divorce lawyer. But then he will do something so loving, so tender, that I fall in love with him again. We find our way back to one another, day by day. Little by little. Out of the ashes, we rise. And again we are in unison, we are in love. And this happens over and over. Because this is marriage.
I don’t know, I guess there might be people for whom marriage is easy. But for me, marriage has been a job where you must work hard to stay employed. When we are out of synch, we have to scuba through the murky waters to find one another. And each time it’s a decision to swim or flee. We have both decided we are worth it. Because we love each other deeply and our commitment to one another is total. If there is anything that can keep two people together, it’s love and commitment. And we are lucky enough to have those two things in spades.
Here’s to the next 30 years. I love you, Peter Lansbury, and damn, am I grateful for you.
*the gratitude-a-thon 