I have nothing of serious interest to report, except that I’m okay. And maybe that’s worth saying. Once I stablized last week (it actually took a few days to feel normal again) I had a week like many other weeks: I went to my friend Erin’s house in Queens to play cards Wednesday;
spent Thursday evening with the remote, shuffling from Ugly Betty to The Office to Grey’s Anatomy to Thirty Rock, wondering why the only shows I watch are packed into a two-hour time block;
had dinner with friends, saw a really cute new Spanish film, then hung around in the village drinking expensive tea on Friday;
and Saturday evening, Mr. Ben and I had pizza under the Brooklyn Bridge with his dad and his stepmom, and then listened to Barge Music from the last four seats available — lined up on the side of the stage. I had a perfect, and perfectly surreal, view of the inside of the grand piano.
Sunday I did laundry, errands, cooked.
At no point did I mourn Anna Nicole Smith. At no point did I feel a twinge of satisfaction that I least I was demonstrably less crazy than the Astronut with the diaper and the pepper spray. I did however appreciate everyone’s good wishes, and do. It’s nice to feel supporting when you start taking steps.
I’m really glad to hear you’re doing better. Love, Adam
thanks little one. where’s that email you promised me?