Your profile, more beautiful than I had ever appreciated, growing sharp and waxen, the contours of your cheeks hollowing out.
What a lovely week I had, reading your sweet comments. Thank you for your love and loyalty and patience. It's good to be with you again.
I should have a more exciting post to share, but things have been fairly quiet as I've steadily plowed through two seasons of "Homeland" in an epic binge of escapism. As much as I loved the show, it's a relief to have wrapped things up - I've been lying awake in bed every night, rigid and exhausted from the tension of stalking the world's most insidious terrorist in a highly dangerous covert operation, while conducting an ill-advised affair with another insidious terrorist. It all seemed a bit much, especially after having recently outrun a hoard of hostile zombie wildings, failed to save my ancestral home from financial ruin and battled Rome for supreme authority over the Church of England.
Which leads me to my motto: When life gets too lifey, absorb yourself in someone else's life and make it your own. As with all things, I take this too far (weeks of copious and inconsolable weeping over my boyfriend's tragic football accident come to mind) and last week, a small and potentially career-damaging incident reminded me that the blurring of fantasy and reality has its disadvatages.
So I was getting out of a taxi with my boss, and I noticed – using my razor sharp CIA-trained powers of observation – that the cabbie was driving off with our colleague.
Panicked, I whizzed around. "Clinton!" I screamed, locking Clare Danes crazy eyes with my boss. "WHERE IS CLINTON?!"
His obliviousness was apparently too much for me. "Jesus Christ," I gasped. "I thought you were being kidnapped..." and then – in a very small voice, because the crazy in my head had unwittingly unleashed itself and it was too late to stop it – "...by a member of a terrorist cell."
I won't go into what happened next (blaming the outburst on a surfeit of "Homeland," watching my colleagues surreptitiously reach for restraints, etc.), but what they didn't know - and what I failed to tell them - is that I could have taken that freedom-hating cabbie to the HOLE, given half a chance.
Wait - the white uniforms are the Giants, right?
OMG IS THAT TIM RIGGINS?
Spike Lee and other rich people attending the Super Bowl
My father is a man of many interests, among them Middle English literature, tap dancing, translating the Vulgate Bible, decorative paint techniques, and spending quality time in the crawl space under the house. Of his obsessions, the one I find most perplexing is his abiding love of the New York Giants - mostly because I don't share it, can't understand it, and would do anything to avoid indulging it. This is one of my father's greatest sorrows - spawning three children who are largely indifferent to football. Marrying an actress who has zero interest in televised sports is something he can comprehend, but three children? Who don't love the Giants? How could this have possibly happened? It's a mystery, a cruel joke, a genetic mutation of epic proportions.
I don't know how it happened, but we all found ourselves - the entire family - sitting together in a small room watching the game last night. (Look how I said it - "the game" - all casual-like. That's because the three weeks I spent plowing through 72 episodes of Friday Night Lights, living and breathing high school football hotties, qualifies me as someone who can bandy about phrases like "that's a superlative tight end" with the rakish, devil-may-care attitude of a true sports afficionado.) In theory, it was my dad's fantasy: three generations eating lentils and rice with chorizo and drinking Sam Adams while the Giants trounce the Patriots. In theory, one's children should know the rules of football, and in theory, their tiny offspring should sit quietly, stupefied by the amazing feats of athleticism splashed across the screen in alarming HD.
But let us review the cast of characters, some of whom have not appeared on the blog for some time:
Scene: Entire family gathered around television screen in mock harmony.
Pudding Pop: (Waving pair of scissors in front of TV) Gabble, gabble. Jibber, jabber. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Good Child's Wife: (Enters room and quickly confiscates scissors) She has a pin. In her mouth. A pin.
Good Child: (Non-committal) Huh. I think she pooped up her back.
Noodle: (Wiggling her long, skinny fingers in front of the TV) I CAN SPELL CHICKEN IN SIGN LANGUAGE! I CAN SPELL CHICKEN IN SIGN LANGUAGE! GUYS! GUYS! I CAN SPELL CHICK--
Bad Child: For God's sake, if you don't keep quiet, I don't know what--
P: Is there any more of that wine?
Pinwheel: (Standing directly in front of TV, gesticulating wildly) VALENTINE'S DAY IS COMING! I BOUGHT VALENTINE'S DAY DECORATIONS WITH MY ALLOWANCE AND--
Bad Child: Sit! Down! You're blocking the screen!
P: Where is Gisele? I can't see Gisele.
Yia-Yia: Who is Gisele?
Muffin: (Standing in front of the screen) YIA-YIA, THIS IS BOR-RING AND I CAN'T WATCH MY SHOW. WHY CAN'T I WATCH MY SHOW?
Good Child, Bad Child and Papi: Stop blocking the screen!
Yia-Yia: (To Muffin) Here, honey, have a stuffed animal.
Muffin: I ALREADY HAVE THAT ONE!
Yia-Yia: OK, give it to your brother.
Zucchini: (Ignoring stuffed animal) I DON'T WANT TO EAT THIS FOOD, YIA-YIA! THIS FOOD IS TERRIBLE!
Noodle: (Bouncing across screen) DANNY WOODHEAD! WOOD! HEAD! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! WOODHEAD! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Bad Child: (Approaching nervous breakdown) Out of the way! Out! Oh my God!
P: Wait - you guys, which one is Tim Riggins?
Photos by Rob Tringali, via.