the pieces of my life

Max Fish. Site of many post-college nights that, frankly, they all blur into one drunken night. But Max Fish is where I spent much of my time, and I was eager to go with Scooby and Sunrise. So we walk down to Ludlow Street only to find…

… a line. A line? At Max Fish? Whaaaat? “Should we get in the line?” Sunrise asks. Um, no! No, we do not do lines and we certainly don’t do lines at Max Fish. That is wrong on too many levels to even think about.

Okay, so what to do next. It’s about 2:20 a.m. And, apparently, someone has to go to the bathroom (I saw someone because it was either Scooby or Sunrise, but I was too busy thinking about where to go next to pay any attention). “Fine,” I say. “We’ll go to Tweeds apartment and you can pee and we can figure out where to go next.”

“We can’t go to your sister’s apartment!” Sunrise says. “It’s 2:30 in the morning!”

“Yeah? So? She’s not far. Let’s go.”

We walk over to the Tweedle Twins’ apartment. “You’re not really going to buzz her, right?” Sunrise asks, looking for reassurance, I think, that on some level I’m a person respectful of my sister’s right to a peaceful night at home. “I mean, she’s probably asleep by now.”

I don’t bother answering. Instead, I hit the buzzer. “She’s never going to answer,” Sunrise said.

“Yes, she will,” I said, and sure enough, the buzz came.

Sunrise shook her head in shock the whole way up. “I cannot believe she let you in.”

Upstairs we were greeted by the Tweedle Twirp, who not only let us use her bathroom, but also gave us some of the Tweedle Twin’s birthday cake.

Sunrise & the Tweedle Twirp

At about 3 a.m., we were fortified to continue our bar crawl. “Sophie’s it is,” I said, Sophie’s being the bar I spent the absolute most time in during my underaged college years.

Sophie’s is exactly the same as it was in the late 1980s. The only difference is that someone is standing at the door, carding everyone. Including me! I was so happy, I about kissed the guy. He was so pleased that I was pleased that he let me card him. Yeah, writing that, it doesn’t make must sense, but in the moment, it was fabulous.

We got our beers (by this point, Scooby was drinking Sprites), and sat at the back table, where an artist who was going to be as famous as Jackson Pollack (or maybe he said painted like Jackson Pollack? I really wasn’t paying that close attention) started hitting on Sunrise. Sunrise was quite pleased. He offered us all weed, but then rescinded the offer when he heard we all had children. Never mind that he looked young enough to be one of our children. Somewhere in my Twitter feed it says that Sunrise spanked a man. Must have happened at Sophie’s. I really don’t remember it.

At about 3:40, I was ready to go, but both Scooby and Sunrise mentioned they had never made it to last call. So we stayed. And we had last call. And they were happy. And then they said that they had never been kicked out of a bar at closing. So we stayed. And we got kicked out after Sunrise tried planking on the bar stools (yeah, I had never heard of planking, either, but this is what real suburban haus fraus apparently do for fun). And they were happy.

It’s 4 a.m. The bars in NYC are now closed. Time for everyone to crawl drunkenly into bed and pray that the hangover doesn’t hit. Except. Except. Except this is NYC. The city that doesn’t sleep. The city where anything can happen. And so our night yet continues on….

My friend, Angela, thought I was going to give you the finale (I’m not sure if anyone other than Angela is reading this, but I’m happy writing just for you, Angela!). Little does she understand that one blog post cannot contain the hours of 1 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. adequately. So we’ll call this Finale, Part 1.

Continuing right along…

Just to set the tone for our night, a group of kids was trying to buy tickets for Bridesmaids. “But I am 17!” the girl was protesting.

“Doesn’t matter,” the ticket seller said. “Your friends aren’t and they need someone 25 or older to accompany them.”

What’s a heroine to do?

Villain: “You can’t buy the tickets!”
Minor in Distress: “I must buy the tickets!”
Villain: “You can’t buy the tickets!”
Minor in Distress: “I must buy the tickets!”
Me: “I’ll buy the tickets!”
Minor in Distress: “My heroine!”
Villain: “Curses! Foiled again!”

Look, it was a freakin’ R-rated movie, not a bottle of vodka. I hope someday someone does the same for my children.

Anyway, the five of us very tired haus fraus went yawning into Bridesmaids. And we loved it. I woke us up, rejuvenated us, and made me ready to take on Sunrise’s husband. Pedestrian tweets, did he say? Oh, I’ll give him some tweets!

Sunrise and Scooby took no convincing. Beetle and Keaton weren’t up for a wild night so they went back to the apartment. I immediately began texting my sister. “Where should we go? Where are you going to meet us?”

She called me within minutes. “I just put my pajamas on! I’m in for the night.”

“I don’t think so,” I told her. “You are a late night person. I’m not allowed to call you before noon. It’s 1 a.m. These are your prime hours.”

Scooby wanted a fruity drink. Sunrise wanted a non-naked bar. I remembered the sign I had seen at the Howl Festival (the one I told you to keep in mind?). “Let’s hop a cab,” I said. “First Street and Second Avenue.” I texted Tweeds: “Meet us at Mars Bar.”

Ah, Mars Bar. Mars Bar is a bar from my wanton youth, a stretch of counter, cheap drinks, and a questionable—in the best of ways—clientele. I didn’t get any good pics, except for Sunrise looking boozy (and out of respect for her suburban haus frau ways, I won’t post it here), but others have (here’s a photo of a n*aked man at the bar). New York magazine wrote of Mars Bar, “This dark, scarred hall full of stiff drinks and crazy regulars is great because it’s legitimately terrifying. If you care to look up from your drink, the glass-brick walls facing Second Avenue provide decent people-watching.”

This, my friends, is where I took my haus frau friends. And, dear readers, I don’t need to tell you, that Sunrise and Scooby loved it (or at least they got boozy enough to pretend they loved it). Mars Bar is going to be knocked down (for condos, I think?) in July, so I felt it was my duty to expose my friends to a piece of New York history.

At first, when we were accosted by a bald man who drunkenly hit on Sunrise, they were wary. But once we got inside… well, they were still wary, but they at least they were game. I ordered a screwdriver for Scooby (because that’s as “fruity drink” as Mars Bar gets) and Rolling Rocks for me and Sunrise, because I was feeling nostalgic. Of course, the beers arrived and Sunrise said, “What? Beer? Aren’t we going to do tequila shots or something?” Cue tequila shots. Sunrise had never actually done one before, so I had to get the salt (no cute shakers here–I was handed a canister of Morton’s) and show Sunrise how it was done. The bald guy from outside offered to buy us another round, but we demurred. Another bald guy—let’s call him J1—struck up with a conversation with us, but as he was nice and he didn’t smell, we went with it. In fact, the yenta in me came out, and I ended up giving him the e-mail of a beautiful, single New York friend of mine. I love that I can still pick up men… even if I’m doing it for someone else.

Meanwhile, I’m harassing Tweeds. I’m phoning her every five minutes.
Call 1:
Me: I don’t see you here!
Tweeds: You’re not looking hard enough. I’m there.

Call 2:
Me: Why aren’t you here?
Tweeds: The Tweedle Twin has already brushed his teeth.
Me: He can brush again!
The Tweedle Twin, heard in the distance: No! No, I can’t!

Call 3:
Me: Get your a*ss down here.
Tweeds: Sure, I’ll be right there.

Call 4:
Me: If you don’t come here, we’re going to come to you!
Tweeds: That’s fine! I just don’t want to get out of my pajamas.

Around 2:30 a.m., we decided it was time to say good-bye to J1. After all, one of my favorite other college haunts, Max Fish, is also scheduled to be closed.

Call 5:
Me: We’re moving to Max Fish. Meet us there.
Tweeds: Yep, no problem.

Time to move on to Ludlow Street…

Saturday morning. Keep in mind, I had half a bottle of Prosecco (because no way could Tweeds and my friend keep up with me) and three lemon drop martinis the night before.

So what the’s only logical thing to do on a Saturday morning? Why, go for a six-mile run with Beetle and Keaton, of course! Running in New York is one of my favorite things—we headed across the High Line, down the Hudson River Park, around the tip of Manhattan, and 3/4 of the way across the Brooklyn Bridge. When we got back on terra firma, we decided to take a subway back, stopping at the Union Square Farmers’ Market for fruit and coffees.

Back at the apartment, Sunrise and Scooby were waiting for us, and after a quick shower and a leisurely breakfast at Markt (where the host was only mildly snarky at us! They’re softening there), I suggested a flea market. “A flea market? Really?” Sunrise protested. As I think I’ve mentioned before, my next novel is to take place in the 1930s, so I’m doing research, looking for old magazines, jewelry, postcards, whatever! to inspire me and to give me insight into my characters. I dragged Sunrise (the rest were willing participants) to one of these huge garages of a flea market.

I walked through it. I was done in about 15 minutes. Bought a pretty (non 1930s) ring. All good.

An hour later we dragged Sunrise out. She was pretty hard to drag, though, as she was laden with purses, jewelry, and god knows what else she found. “This is awesome!” she was heard to mutter a few times and she practically ran when she saw the next flea market one block over.

By this time, the half bottle of Prosecco, the three lemon drop martinis, and the six-mile run were catching up with me, and I headed back to the apartment for some, let’s call it, “alone time.” The rest headed to Fishs Eddy. About an hour later I was ready to join them again. So I called to find out where they were. Still at Fishs Eddy. Uh, really?

We headed back to the Strand, where this time, I stocked up on books for me! I’m not as ideologically against e-readers as some would have you believe, but the simple fact that it doesn’t allow you to spend hours on end leafing through books at the Strand is enough reason for me to turn my nose up at them.

By this time, Tweeds had joined us and she lead us to an ice cream store that had the most marvelous waffle cones that I could have eaten twelve more. We sat by St. Mark’s Church and had our ice cream and rested our toesies. We lost Keaton at that point who wanted a nap, so the rest of us headed to the Howl Festival in Tompkins Square Park (passing my old apartment!), and after listening to bad music and eating good pierogi, we walked to the Hester Street Craft Fair.

My old apartment:

Street art at the Howl Festival (pay attention to this! It will come back to haunt this story later):

We took the subway up, got all prettied up to see a show, and then headed out for dinner. We couldn’t decide on a place, and ended up at a pub that was okay, but not worth writing about. Then we saw Desperate Writers at the Union Street Theater. The play was cute, with some funny moments, but overall, it didn’t float our boats. We were in the front row, so we had to crane our necks up, and I was too aware that the top of my underwear was rolling down and cutting into my belly. Never the sign of an engrossing play.

We left, yawning. It was about 10 p.m. I texted Tweeds to see what she was up to, but we were really all pretty tired and pretty much done for the night. But then, two things happened: 1) As we were walking home, Sunrise spotted that Bridesmaids was playing in just a half an hour and 2) Sunrise’s husband had the audacity to tempt us into trouble by e-mailing me: “I’m not going to say your tweets have been pedestrian but… actually, yes I will. No nudity and very little alcohol.”

So at 10:35 on Saturday night, we started all over….

I am on the Acela headed south to New York City. (Whenever I say “New York City,” I think of that old salsa ad.) So you, my friends (or whoever you are), will be subject to my random thoughts of the moment.

—I sent in my marketing materials to my agent, but haven’t gotten feedback on it yet. I think that those marketing materials were the hardest thing I’ve had to write—definitely harder than the novel itself; possibly harder than the query. And I feel like a jerk calling my own writing “powerful” and “engaging.” I mean, it is “powerful” and “engaging,” I’d just rather others say it for me.

—Shoes. I hate shoes. I never know what shoes go with what. Which makes it especially annoying that by the front door of our house lives a shoe pile that makes the annual shoe sale at Nordtrom look contained:
There are eight feet in this family! Why are there so many shoes? My daughter alone could shoe a small nation with the ones she hordes in her closet. Seriously. She does not part with shoes. No matter how small they get.

—I missed National Short Story Month. Seriously. Apparently May was National Short Story Month and I just blinked and let it slip by. Which is a shame, because short stories are so digestible. What’s June? I mean other than National It’s My Birthday Month So What Are You Getting Me? Only 23 shopping days left, people! One Story, which is a journal I love and highly recommend, published a list of the top 10 short stories. I think my goal for the next 12 months is to read every story on their top 10 and their big list.

—V. S. Naipaul, what up? I mean, dude, I stood by you through that whole Paul Theroux feud. I mean, yes, you sounded like an ass. But who knows? Theroux has proven in his writing that he’s not always the easiest man to get along with. But women writers suck? All of them? Look, I’ve actually read your books. And let me tell you, there are plenty of folks who say they’ve read your books, but I’ve actually sat down and read, from beginning to end, three of your books (technically, three and a half. I couldn’t get through Half a Life: A Novel). I was a loyal fan. But not anymore. We’re done. Jack ass.

—I have no idea where I am. I see highway and bridges. Oh, and water! So I am officially somewhere between Massachusetts and New York (sorry Rhode Island and Connecticut that I can’t tell you apart).

—Does the train really need to be air conditioned? I won’t even turn on the air condition in my own home, because although we’ve hit 88 degrees, it’s not summer yet. Wasteful train.

—Oh, I’m in New London! Which would be helpful if I had any idea where New London was. Gotcha, Connecticut. I can tell by the Foxwoods signs. I may not know my towns, but I do know my casinos.

Okay, signing off now, because I did promise myself I’d take this train ride to do more revising. Or sleeping. Or revising in my sleep. Something like that. There might be more from NYC. There’s bound to be lots of tweets. Something about New York just makes me Twitter happy. Fuggedaboutit.

Adam is having dinner on what is arguably the world’s largest yacht (and apparently it is up for debate). This is the life he now apparently leads.

The life I lead involves leftover pasta, an iPhone on rice, the girl’s multiple nightmares, and the week-old dirty socks I just found in the boy’s backpack. Minutes ago I e-mailed Beetle, asking her, “Who the f**k is playing such loud music in the neighborhood at this hour? And classical music at that?”

And then I went upstairs to put away yet more stray books only to discover that it’s us. We’re the ones playing such loud f**king music at this hour. When the girl had her third “I’m having a nightmare even though I haven’t yet closed my eyes,” I told her, “Turn on your light, read a book, listen to music… I don’t care! Just go the freak to sleep and leave me alone!” And so she turned on the Nutcracker. At top volume.

Good thing I didn’t call the cops. To think I had thought I’d skip the wine tonight. Ha!

It must be spring. The air is warmer. Birds are chirping. The boy is begging to ride his bike. I dropped my iPhone in the toilet. The girls is asking to go about in just a bathing suit.

Wait, what? No, no, no. I definitely did not wear my capris with the shallow back pocket and, upon pulling them down to do private things, allowed my phone to fall into the toilet. Of course not! I did that last year and who in the hell who be so incredibly moronically stupid to do that kind of thing twice? Seriously? Not me. Absolutely, totally, and completely not me. Which means this conversation with the boy did not happen this evening.

The boy: What are you doing?
Me: I’m putting my phone in a bag of rice.
The boy: Why?
Me: Um, because…
The boy: Why?
Me: I dropped it in the toilet.
The boy: Again?!
Me: Maybe.
The boy: You really should get a cheaper phone. You keep dropping them in the toilet!
Me: Harumph.
The boy: And if you get a cheaper phone, can I have the iPhone to take apart?

But of course there is no iPhone to take apart. Because I absolutely, definitely, for sure didn’t drop my iPhone in the toilet again! How much longer till the iPhone 5 comes out? (And, just to be clear, I went to write, “How much longer till the iPhone 4 comes out,” and the boy said, “You have an iPhone 4. The iPhone 5 is what you want.” Can you say, “his father’s son?”)

I attend parties in Dubai. I pick up after weddings, especially weddings where the bride and groom have trouble lighting the unity candle. I fly from London to Salt Lake City. I take Musical Theater and/or Dance Fusion. I’ve rented cars in Dallas. I’ve put down deposits on apartments. I receive recipes, offensive e-mail forwards, and pictures of total strangers’ kids.

Why? Because my name is common. And while I myself am not doing any of that stuff, somewhere in this world is another Jenny Brown doing that stuff. Or, rather, many Jenny Browns doing that stuff. Because my gmail account—which I’ve had to more or less abandon—is full of e-mail that was sent to me by mistake. I thought I was so clever getting to gmail fast enough to get jennybrown at gmail.com. Little did I know it was one of the dumbest things I’ve done on the Internet.

I keep the account because I use it as a way to back up my writing. I have a program that syncs up my computer every now and then with some offline computer (I picture something very 1960s, a room full of computers spewing out punch cards), but I find it helpful to e-mail myself my work in progress as a safety measure. Also, because I can access gmail from any computer, I can get to my work in progress from anywhere.

About once a month or so I go in there to clean out my account, to see what the other Jenny Browns of this world are up to. A lot of them shop, because I’m forever getting store notices for places they registered at. And apparently a significant number of Jenny Browns are British, because I keep getting things that are priced in pounds. I’ve gotten receipts. I’ve gotten notifications of plane tickets. What would happen if I showed up and took one of those flights? My name would match that on the ticket, after all.

When an e-mail comes from a person, I try to do the right thing and let them know that they have the wrong e-mail address. Sometimes that bites me in the butt.

This is an honest to goodness exchange I’ve had on my gmail account:

Someone replied to this e-mail, which was sent from a Jenny Brown who has an initial in her e-mail address.

Hello Troop Leaders,

Best,
Jenny Brown

Someone wanted to reply. But instead of hitting “reply,” the responder typed in the e-mail address, leaving out the “D” so it came to me:

Hi Jenny

Martine

Feeling kind, I responded: You have the wrong email address. Looks like you forgot the d.

She replied: Thanks. What does D stand for?

Me: I don’t know as I’m not her.

E-mailer: Now you’ve got me completely confused!

I spelled it out for the poor woman: I got your original email by mistake. You sent an email to [address] instead of [address], which is where the original email came from. I don’t know Jenny D. Brown and I don’t know you. Hope that clears it up.

I prefer it when they get belligerent, like this one from today:

e-mailer: The only flight that will get you […long explanation of flights]
me: You have the wrong email address.
e-mailer: What is this Jenny? I have been using this email address for some time. I started with grandmann and swathed pjsieger once you knew my name.

I don’t even know what that means! And that would have been the end of it, except that last night, there was another e-mail. After getting it, I had to ask Adam, “Is he for real or is he putting me on?” I honestly don’t know at this point:

Hi. my love

Your price for life Paul

My favorite, though, is the guy I e-mailed that he had the wrong address and he responded:
No, I don’t. You told me not to e-mail you at your work e-mail.

Of course. If you do want to reach me, the best way is that e-mail address on the side of the blog. Otherwise, you might be waiting a long time for a response. And it might come from another Jenny Brown.

First, let me tell you, the sheet is still on the front porch. It’s moved a little, from the swing to the ground, but it’s still there. At this point, it’s just kind of blending in with the scenery.

Second, I’m feeling a little adrift because my revisions are in, Teacher Appreciation Week is over, Daisies are done for the month, and I haven’t yet started a new project. I have some ideas, but I need to get cracking. A writer who isn’t writing is, well, not a writer. See, if I were a writer, I would have been able to come up with something much more clever there.

Third, I had intended to start a new project today, but as I sat down, I noticed a flagged e-mail (flagging is my useful way of saying, “Hey, remember to do this!”). When I looked at it, I saw that summer camp forms were due… May 2. Oops. (In defense of the flags, I did remember eventually! Without the flags, the forms never would have been done.) So I spend half the morning tracking down immunizations and insurance cards and looking up phone numbers and that sort of exciting stuff, because if I don’t, I’ll have a summer of, “What can I do? But what can I do? No, what can I dooooo?”

Fourth, the ants are back. I was most disturbed when I saw Adam just crush one in the middle of the kitchen. “What are you doing?” I asked him. “Killing ants.” I demonstrated how we lovingly catch the ants and then take them outside to live free among the grass and trees. Adam looked at me like I was crazy and then stepped on another ant.

Fifth, I cannot figure out this blog. I’ve tried to make changes, move things, add things, make things pretty in my side bars. But it foils me. Having a self-hosted domain (as opposed to a blog-hosted domain) really screws you. It’s frustrating me. To the point where I’ve decided the only way to reclaim my photo blog is to go back to Blogger and simply use a blogspot address. So it’s there in the sidebar (that I could do), and I now have the ability to update it from my phone the old-fashioned way. Not that anything you can do from a phone could be considered remotely old fashioned, but I think you know what I mean.

Sixth, I have no sixth. But I do have a…

Seventh, there’s a school dance on Friday. A school dance! Who has a school dance for elementary school kids? Granted, it’s being billed as a “family dance,” but as you all well know, I dance no where sober unless it’s my kitchen and I’d say it’s a good bet there will be no bar.

Eighth, which leads me to the very important question, which I ask just about every year: Why do I still not own a flask? (Hey Adam! Someone has a birthday next month! Hint, hint!)

Ninth, why does my second-grade I-hate-girls want to attend this school dance? I will be taking him—and his sister—but I fear I will live to regret it, as I’m guessing it either means he has some devious scheme to set off a stink bomb in the cafetorium (yes, it’s called a “cafetorium”) or he’s going to eye the girl he has a crush on from across the room and then leave in a grouchy fuss when he doesn’t talk to her at all. Note: I’m not completely sure about that crush thing, but I have a very strong suspicion that the boy has a slight crush (or rather,in second grade parlance, he “likes likes” someone) on a girl we know, but of course, it’s not a subject I’m allowed to even think about, never mind ask him about. I’m not sure which of the outcomes is the more scary; I think a flask would solve whatever problems may come up.

Tenth, well, I would have told you the tenth, but the girl is being dropped off from ballet and she’s whining about a hurt leg and she’s hungry and can’t she wear a party dress to synagogue tonight because it is Israel’s birthday!, so I’ll have to leave you all wondering what the tenth thing was going to be.

I was tweeting the wedding, but I’m not one to keep my thoughts to 140 characters so I decided I’d rather share them on the blog. Here they are in all their randomness. If you have no interest in the wedding, just move along.

—Am I watching the royal wedding because I happen to be awake? Or do I happen to be awake because of the royal wedding? I’ll never tell.
—Okay, yes I will. I’m awake because I have to send out school newsletter, write an op-ed piece for paper and shop for teacher appreciation week.
—But it was fun to be all mysterious and bandwagon-y for a few minutes.
—Well, I did just wake up the five year old to watch the wedding. I’ll regret that at about 8 a.m. when it’s time to go to school. So maybe I am all bandwagon-y.
—Watching Royal Wedding is giving the girl some bad ideas. Some very, very bad ideas. No, we won’t play horns and stand up when you enter a room like they do for the Queen.
—The boy has joined us.
—Trying to explain royal lineage to the kids. Not going well. “So that’s the Queen. And her son is a prince. And her husband is a prince. And the one getting married is a prince.” “So where’s the king?” “There is no king.”
—People think Kate or her mom must be nervous. But really, you know who must be the most terrified person in that room? The mother of the three-year-old bridesmaid. I wouldn’t want to be her if that kid has a meltdown mid-ceremony.
—The boy, “So is that the king?” “No, there is no king. When the Queen dies, her son, Prince Charles, will become King of England, but right now there is no king, just a lot of princes.”
—Pie: “So which one is getting married?” Me: “Not the cute one.”
—Pie wants to know why there are trees growing in Westminster Abbey. I tell her I don’t know.
—Wouldn’t you feel a little like an ass being the only adult bridesmaid among all those kids. Kind of like, “Hey, did they really want me or did they just need a nanny?”
—I hadn’t expected the vows to be quite so cliche.
—Adam’s joined us. He and Pie are providing commentary. Adam asks, “Why are there trees in Westminster Abbey?” Guess what? I still don’t know.
—Adam: “How early did those people in front of Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace have to arrive to get those prime front spots?” “I don’t know. Hey, ‘They’re changing the guards at Buckingham Palace. Christopher Robin went down with Alice.‘” Pie: “Wait, so Alice is getting married?”
—Kate doesn’t look so happy. I love that “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” look.
—Ooh, Pippa looks pissed. I bet she’s thinking, “Damn that Kate! She told me there’d be cute page boys. She didn’t say they’d still be in short pants!”
—The boy asked if they can have breakfast in front of the TV. I said sure and I asked the Royal Butler to serve them.
—The boy asked for salami and eggs. The girl asked for salami and bread. But we’re out of bread. “Okay, I’ll have salami and Kix, then.” They’re not eating this well at Buckingham Palace!
—Have you noticed I’m here? I really should be doing that work I woke up to do. At least I got the school newsletter out already. But it’s hard to write an op-ed about the town needing an override to pay for a few teachers when there are trees growing in Westminster Abbey. What is with those trees?
—The prince looks like he’s bored out of his mind. Kate is off in la-la land. Not the sign of a good wedding.
—Why the depressing wedding? Those Anglicans could learn something from the Jews. A wedding is 15 minutes, maybe 20. Walk in, couple of blessings, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, break a glass, party! None of this sad choir stuff.
—How fast was the guy who dropped ABC’s live feed fired? I—and about a zillion others—just switched to CBS.
—My former Amazonian office mate, Simon, is a Brit, who is up at 3 a.m. Seattle time to watch the wedding. So I asked him all our questions: “Why are there trees in Westminster Abbey? Why haven’t they kissed? What exactly is all this Anglican stuff?” He answered me: “Trees look pretty. William is scared of kissing. Anglicanism gives you all the poetry without having to believe very much.”
—Me: “Wow, look at everyone at Buckingham Palace!” “What’s Buckingham Palace?” “It’s where the Queen lives.” “And the king?” “No, there is NO king!”
—Poor Pippa. From babysitting the bridesmaids to cleaning up after the princess.
—There’s a real pecking order at this wedding. First, did you get an invite? Only 1,900 people did. Then, did you get invited to the Queen’s luncheon? One of 600! Going to the dinner at the palace? You’re one of 300. At the dinner tonight, do you think they’ll all say, “Had we been invited to the wedding, but not invited to the luncheon, Dayenu…”
—My son: “Is it a national holiday there?” Me: “Yes, no one is working today in England.” Boy: “Well, except the police.” Me: “Oh, yes, there’s tons of security at the wedding!” Boy: “Today would be a good day to steal something because everyone’s at the wedding.”
—The boy asks, “So is that Queen Victoria?” “No, Queen Elizabeth.” “Victoria and Elizabeth have been popular with Queens. There was Queen Victoria the First, Queen Victoria the Second. Queen Elizabeth the First, Queen Elizabeth the Second.” “I don’t think there was a second Queen Victoria.” “Oh.” “How the hell do you know any queens of England?” “I dunno.”
—The boy: “Boy, Catherine is going to hate that dress when she tries to get it off!”
—Me: “So there’s the Queen. And the prince.” Pie: “I thought you said there was no prince!”
—I would like to note that we need to be out of the house in 33 minutes, and both kids are still in pajamas lounging on the couch.
—The girl: “They just said Facebook and Twitter! They’re on Facebook and Twitter!” Me: “What does Facebook and Twitter mean?” The girl: “It means you can make e-mails to strangers that you don’t even know by them looking at your stuff!”
—The boy: “Why do they salute with their hand upside down? That looks like a wrist breaker to me. The palace is big! I wonder if they have a baseball field there. Or a football field.”
—I sent the kids to dress and promised I’d stay here so if anything exciting happens, I could pause.
—That girl has never dressed so fast. Although I used “dressed” loosely. Forgot to change her underwear, didn’t brush her hair, and couldn’t be bothered to fasten her dress closed.

Okay, girl has returned, the prince and princess are at Buckingham Palace, and it’s officially time for me to get dressed and start my day. Enough fairy tales for one day. Time for the ogres and trolls of working on the town’s override. Grrrr….

Here’s the dilemma: About a month ago, my son borrowed (with permission) a sheet to build a teepee in the backyard. About 3 1/2 weeks ago, we had a snow, so my son brought the sheet to the front porch. It’s been sitting there ever since.

Do I:
—Bring the sheet in, carry it upstairs, and place it in the hamper, so my husband, the laundry-doer, can magically make it clean?
—Bring the sheet in, carry it down to the basement (which is actually equidistant from the front door as the hamper upstairs), and place it in the washing machine, thereby revealing to my husband that 1) I do indeed know where the washing machine is and 2) I’m capable of operating it?
—Just leave the sheet on the front porch and hope that animals carry it away?

I’m guessing I don’t really have to answer this for any of you.