All right, time to goss... Part 1 š
Half-asleep and one digit OFF at the arrivals gate in Spain.
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Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you?
So, hereās a funny story with an absurd setup. I just went 5,790.1 miles on a date this summer. I donāt get out much. But when I doā¦
It goes like this. It is years ago. I am in grad school, and one night this young professor walks out onto the stage in a leather jacket. He is a rock star. The absolute SPIT of Sting, he is completely electric to my 23-year-old mind. His ideas set me on fire. All the girls want him. I want him. It makes me so stressed that I apply to other PhD programs.
Fast forward through a lifetime of marriage, children, divorce, attempts at other relationships, work, work, and still more work until my brain interrupts things, and out of the blue, I get an email: āHi there.ā He would like to interview me for his podcast.
We arrange a Zoom. He is just as brilliant and funny and Nick Charles-ish as he was decades ago. My day is brighter for having spoken with him. We decide to keep talking. One day, he tells me that after Iād left the program, he came across a photo of me with my ex and children, looking happy. He tells me heād check back periodically because heād always had feelings for me. I am in shock. We keep talking and every day is lighter and more exciting because of him. Eventually, he invites me to Spain. And I am scared.
I had pretty much closed for business after my last attempt at dating was such a bust. I am in Nancy Meyers mode with Coastal Gran aspirations. Give me my Petite Plumes and my books I told peopleā¦ I was returning to myself.
But then, last yearās accident gave me pause. It might be good to grow old with a person. Becauseā¦ itās hard to live aloneāespecially if you are constantly cosplaying Marie Antoinette all over the joint. You certainly donāt live very long.
So I go to Spain.
I deplane after hurtling fourteen frozen hours across the continental US and the Atlantic. Groggy, dehydrated, and pretzled, my meet-cute-style goals are modest. A ragamuffin Sienna Miller look is what Iām going forāIāve been doing my two-mile jaunts around the park at home, so itās not a stretch.
Of course, my phone (I just switched serviceāha) is exploding with notifications. Suddenly, it tells me it doesnāt work in Europeā¦ And why the hell was I taking a trip without telling it first? And now itās going to charge me this, that, and the other thing if I donāt do something immediately. Gaah, I canāt be bothered becauseā¦ a) Iām too exhausted. b) I hate my phone. Apart from emergencies and it being a decent camera, itās an absolute intrusive beast. I never use it. I am still an early-aughts iMessenger girl. Plus, most writers I know also hate their phones, so I feel OK about hating it and c) I am beyond curious to find this person I have not touched, inhaled, or laid IRL eyes on in nearly 30 years.
In Passport Control, after our obligatory āHola, que talās,ā the official with the wax-curled mustache asks, āAre you here for business or pleasure, Ms. Jones?ā
Spying the perjury warnings just over his shoulder, I bark the words at him, āOH, definitely PLEASURE!ā Then, āSO much pleasure!ā I shout through the glass. āYes, pleasure, thank you, hmmm-hhh!ā
The official smirks, shakes his head, stamps my passport, and waves me through.
At international arrivals, a mad festival of rom-coms is playing out. Everywhere, dozens of hopeful people are assembled at the entrance with brightly colored welcome signs and all manner of flowers. I scowl. He would never be so demonstrative or over the top, would he? Wait, should he? I mean, I would so totally make him a signābut I would make it funny, some inside joke only we would know. Something from The Thin Man or Out of the Past.
I tell him I will be wearing my Paris Review t-shirt and yoga clothes. Per our recent Zooms, I scan the crowd now for a slightly tired version of Daniel Craig. Though, have you seen Daniel Craig, lately? Heās looking more and more like Dierdre Barlow from Coronation Street. Whatās that about?
Anyway, time and circumstances have changed us, but I know I will recognize him, I tell myself. I wonāt just walk right past him in the crowd. Iāll sense him.
Let me be clear, I am not expecting thisāhe has a herniated disc.
I wait. He doesn't come.
I dial his number, only to get a random recording I can barely make out amid all the romantic reunions happening around me. Itās Love Actually on steroids everywhere you look and I canāt seem to leave a voicemail. Everyone is kissing. Sigh.
I text him. āHey, am here at arrivals.ā Perky.
I email him. āJust in case my textās not getting through, here in arrivals?ā Patient.
I ring him again. It all seems wrong, but I am so fatigued, between country codes and digits, I can barely see straight. (Oh dear)
I try to WhatsApp him though for some inexplicable reason WhatsApp will only allow me to call my miscreant brother. (I scold myself that I need to get better with technology given itās the 21st century and I travel so much, but then I remind myself how much I hate my phone and itās a tossup.)
I think how I wish I could have him summoned to a white courtesy telephone like in a 1970s Pakula neo-noir, but Spainās not in the mood.
Oh, what if this is some sort of terrible comeuppance? Is this a cruel joke? No, he would never do something so childishā¦
Then, that annoying little self-help voice from my youth intones, āMaybe right now, youāre alone in this airport because whatever you need to learn about yourself can only be learned in solitude?ā
Gaaaaaaggghgā¦ To have well-adjusted, crunchy parents just sucks ass.
Iām not quite to the āShould I cab it to a hotel?ā stage. And if I were, itād beā¦ OK, so which hotel? One in the city? Or should I remain at the airport in case this is just a big mix-up? I look around at all the signs.
My spoken Spanish is pretty much confined to what I usually talk about with Teodora, i.e., why Iām always late, arguments over the chickens, the mystery of where all the spoons in our house go, and what the kids are actually doing with them. (She is convinced they are trying to bend them with their minds.)
And I am starting feel like the biggest idiot in the whole wide worldā¦ Iām in the wrong country, with the wrong digits, and maybe the wrong expectations when I feel a hand on mine, and I turnā¦
More next week.
Things I wish I remembered to pack (that are marvelous)
So, in running out the door to Spain, I forgot a few items one should always have when tilting at windmills and loveā¦
This old-school swimsuit from
at Field Blend. It came a tad too late. I want to go back to Spain right nowājust to walk around in it there. I need this for every beach for the rest of my life. Itās the perfect 1940s suit.Also from
curation. My Supergaās bit the dust a week before the trip, so there I was thinking I could get away with being lazy with these little diamond flip-flopsā¦ Wrong, wrong, wrong. I needed these. You need to be able to tromp everywhere without looking like a big dumb American.Also, from Elyse who has a new indie bookstore in St Helena, CA, Wild Plum Books. I needed a Donna Tartt-esque book to keep me busy. I kept reading way too much Rachel Cusk, which tends to make me question the utility of existence, lol. Not healthy.
Doofus of the Week: Project 2025
An excellent breakdown by
whom we adore.Doofus Honorable Mention: The Crowd at the Rally
If you listen to the audio of the shooting, youāll hear the shots pop. The crowd sounds confused. There are shouts. A few screams. A moment passes, maybe two. And then Trump stands and pumps his fist into the air. The confusion is replaced by a roar of cheers, and chants of USA, USA, USA. Trump is alive, but a husband and father are in the crowd dead. Two others are injured.Ā
Itās hard to stop thinking about the sound of the cheering. The crowd couldnāt even conceive a man had been killed, that he was bleeding out on the ground mere feet from them as they kept cheering.Ā Altman couldnāt have shot it better.
This week inā¦ Thatās marvelous!
Team Brenda Forever!
Hereās to āDifficult Womenā. I loved Shannen Doherty most as Charmedās sister-witch Prue Halliwell and as the tributes pour in like the one from Jennifer Wiener in the New York Times, let us embrace the witches and bitches to come. Weāre going to need them.
Conversations From a Long Marriage
This is a LOST treasure to be listened to before bed for the best dreams ever. Joanna Lumley and Roger Allam play a long-married couple. Their conversations are passionate, hilarious, and familiar to every couple. Itās completely immersive radio comedy written by Jan Etherington.
OK, stay cool, Lovelies, and know that Iām thinking about you ā xoxo, gotham girl
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Ooooh...and the goss continues. Still catching up. This is the part I missed. LOL. "I tired Daniel Craig". LOL I'm perfectly stunned that he looked like this over a month ago. Where the hell did you find these pics? That can't be his real hair. His hair is gray and it's short! It has to be a wig.
I donāt know how I missed this, but I feel so flattered!! Pleasure, definitely here for pleasure!