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“You have the riskiest house in the neighborhood!” Neighbor Ed told me yesterday.
We’d been discussing Thanksgiving plans. The Neighbor Eds were disinvited from their daughter’s home in Providence because it was thought the grandkids might squeal, and the daughter—a doctor—can’t afford to lose her childcare.
I’d suggested they have Turkey Day with L and C.
Neighbor Ed recoiled at the thought!
It’s true there are far more comings and goings at my house than the CDC looks kindly upon.
Anton routinely has lovers staying overnight.
Zee has CIA classmates.
L has C who drives down from Albany on a weekly basis. One suspects C spends his Albany time in monastic solitude getting quietly plastered, but one doesn’t know.
“And Linda goes all over the place, doing wherever the hell she pleases,” Neighbor Ed continued.
“You’re not wrong,” I said.
We were talking near the garbage cans I’d just rolled down the grand circular driveway for pickup. Sans masks but at a respectable six-foot distance.
“I’m going nuts,” Ed said and sighed. “Wanna go for a walk?”
“Not today,” I said, glancing up at the glowering sky and shuddering slightly in the cold. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Gotta say I am in much better spirits than I thought I would be under the circumstances, which fact I attribute solely to the enormous amount of carrot habanero hot sauce I imbibe.
Nature’s own antidepressant!
Extremely hot hot sauce is something most people don’t like, or I would have pressed a jar on Neighbor Ed.
###
I’m semi-isolating to lessen the chance of spreading the plague when I go up to Ithaca on Thursday.
Yesterday, I watched a few bad movies and did some cleaning.
In the course of the cleaning, I stumbled across several boxes filled with (literally) thousands of photographs and thought, Huh! I should scan some of these.
So, I did.
Childhood photos of moi:
Always trying to make things easy for future biographers! I think I wrote “Me at eight” on that picture when I was nine.
###
Here are George and I, mugging it up for the camera:
George was my Texas gazillionaire.
I really ought to have married him when he asked me; I would have gotten a hefty divorce settlement out of it.
But by then I had already fallen in love with somebody else.
That didn’t deter me from living with George, but it did deter me from wanting the Governor of California’s autograph on a document attesting to the strength of our attachment.
During the first year and a half of our relationship when I was seriously in love with him, George was officially in love with someone called Suzanne Fox with whom I also became involved. The classic romantic triangle!
Suzanne was neither particularly pretty nor particularly bright, but she had this intense emotional charisma: It was impossible not to fixate on her.
She was also teaching me how to drive: Growing up in New York City, driving had not seemed like a skill worth acquiring, but I was living in California now, and you can’t live in California and not drive—well, I mean, you can. But it’s ridiculous.
Suzanne was the empress; I was the concubine. The power hierarchy was galling.
So, one day, I turned to George and asked, What’s the deal here? I’m obviously better-looking and reams smarter than Suzanne, so how come you like her better than me?
Well, Patty, he replied. Thing is Suzanne’s so helpless. And you can take care of yourself.
BAM!!!!
Just like that, I fell out of love with him.
But you know how those things go: As soon as I fell out of love with him, he fell desperately in love with me.
###
This picture is not a modeling picture per se, but it was taken on the set of a modeling assignment:
I wish I could remember what the getup was intended to hype! Persian carpets? Kimonos? I think maybe lingerie—I was deemed too ethnic looking to sell everyday consumer items like shampoo or laundry detergent, so I ended up doing a lot of underwear shots. Yes, I think that was what I was wearing beneath the kimono—some kind of peekaboo bra.
We’d been discussing Thanksgiving plans. The Neighbor Eds were disinvited from their daughter’s home in Providence because it was thought the grandkids might squeal, and the daughter—a doctor—can’t afford to lose her childcare.
I’d suggested they have Turkey Day with L and C.
Neighbor Ed recoiled at the thought!
It’s true there are far more comings and goings at my house than the CDC looks kindly upon.
Anton routinely has lovers staying overnight.
Zee has CIA classmates.
L has C who drives down from Albany on a weekly basis. One suspects C spends his Albany time in monastic solitude getting quietly plastered, but one doesn’t know.
“And Linda goes all over the place, doing wherever the hell she pleases,” Neighbor Ed continued.
“You’re not wrong,” I said.
We were talking near the garbage cans I’d just rolled down the grand circular driveway for pickup. Sans masks but at a respectable six-foot distance.
“I’m going nuts,” Ed said and sighed. “Wanna go for a walk?”
“Not today,” I said, glancing up at the glowering sky and shuddering slightly in the cold. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Gotta say I am in much better spirits than I thought I would be under the circumstances, which fact I attribute solely to the enormous amount of carrot habanero hot sauce I imbibe.
Nature’s own antidepressant!
Extremely hot hot sauce is something most people don’t like, or I would have pressed a jar on Neighbor Ed.
###
I’m semi-isolating to lessen the chance of spreading the plague when I go up to Ithaca on Thursday.
Yesterday, I watched a few bad movies and did some cleaning.
In the course of the cleaning, I stumbled across several boxes filled with (literally) thousands of photographs and thought, Huh! I should scan some of these.
So, I did.
Childhood photos of moi:
Always trying to make things easy for future biographers! I think I wrote “Me at eight” on that picture when I was nine.
###
Here are George and I, mugging it up for the camera:
George was my Texas gazillionaire.
I really ought to have married him when he asked me; I would have gotten a hefty divorce settlement out of it.
But by then I had already fallen in love with somebody else.
That didn’t deter me from living with George, but it did deter me from wanting the Governor of California’s autograph on a document attesting to the strength of our attachment.
During the first year and a half of our relationship when I was seriously in love with him, George was officially in love with someone called Suzanne Fox with whom I also became involved. The classic romantic triangle!
Suzanne was neither particularly pretty nor particularly bright, but she had this intense emotional charisma: It was impossible not to fixate on her.
She was also teaching me how to drive: Growing up in New York City, driving had not seemed like a skill worth acquiring, but I was living in California now, and you can’t live in California and not drive—well, I mean, you can. But it’s ridiculous.
Suzanne was the empress; I was the concubine. The power hierarchy was galling.
So, one day, I turned to George and asked, What’s the deal here? I’m obviously better-looking and reams smarter than Suzanne, so how come you like her better than me?
Well, Patty, he replied. Thing is Suzanne’s so helpless. And you can take care of yourself.
BAM!!!!
Just like that, I fell out of love with him.
But you know how those things go: As soon as I fell out of love with him, he fell desperately in love with me.
###
This picture is not a modeling picture per se, but it was taken on the set of a modeling assignment:
I wish I could remember what the getup was intended to hype! Persian carpets? Kimonos? I think maybe lingerie—I was deemed too ethnic looking to sell everyday consumer items like shampoo or laundry detergent, so I ended up doing a lot of underwear shots. Yes, I think that was what I was wearing beneath the kimono—some kind of peekaboo bra.
