Every single person in this house bar the dogs is suffering from a sore right shoulder. I actually believed I'd put my arm out, but the hurt has been downgraded after a handful or two of advil. J's brilliant idea Sunday was to introduce the Wii platform to the household, and it was duely embraced by a virtual Wimbledon of ace serves, top spins and break points. "I've dislocated my arm playing (virtual) tennis" doesn't sound that alarming, but it hurts like a mofo. Like all addictive drugs the pain does not prevent you from playing and we're like a bunch of six year olds fighting over the consoles. My real talent it seems is designing the Mii avatars to look like me, and you, and Minks and Noon. "Pity you can't get a job doing this Mamma" said my eldest without a hint of irony.
The papers today carry a singularly depressing story that the Portuguese police have received a lead in the Madeleine McCann case. A "credible" letter has been sent to the McCanns suggesting the exact point off the road, three miles from Praia da Luz where Madeleine's body has been buried "under a pile of rocks. I hope and pray that this isn't the case. In other news, a German reporter asked the McCann's if they'd had any part in the disappearance of their daughter.
I feel like a rat in a cage. My father used to call people that lived in cities "rats in a cage." It is a little bit of a broad sweep but I understand how it can cling to you, that expression. Self-loathing kicks in when you realize what a hideously greedy consumer society we are. It's all about marketing and packaging and consuming as much as possible. I long for the sound of nothing, maybe just the waves or a lark in a large wheat field, and the blank canvas of a big open space, beyond the strutting and fretting, the wanting and jealousy, the must-haves and the downtrodden have-nots. J is away again. AGAIN, I know, and it's making me sad. I don't know why. I question it every time, this feeling more suited to a teenager. I wonder why I can't suck it up and deal with it like a real person. I hate the loneliness of it, I suppose. And this is chosen, I do know that. I do realize that isolation is something one chooses. Every time I'm in the pharmacy or at Coffee Bean I think, so THIS is how it is on the outside, where the people are. And every time I close myself away outside choosing between death or cake, as one does, staring fitfully at this f-ing screen and wondering what drivvel is about to be spewed, and one of the children interrupts me, and I'm temporarily irritated, and then they talk to me, and it's so comforting and connected. Do people need check lists for these things? a)eat b)sleep c)exercise d)connect with people, and of course e)hug your children. Collect good memories, that's what the man said, collect good memories. And that does not include sitting outside in a muck sweat staring at the MacBook because you have nothing to say. It's not that I don't have anything to say either, I'm just not entirely sure that what I have to say is particularly interesting.
My friend who will go nameless today, those most days I name her, is in a dreadful fracas with another dear friend over a poltergeist in a child's bedroom and the guilty party - a possessed rag doll. Dolly-dearest was thrown into the trash in a drunken moment, in a supposedly benign attempt to exorcise the impish spirit from the little girl's room. Little girl is now, obviously, very upset and my friend who will go nameless today has apologized every which way she can but is still feeling enormously guilty and sad. "It's a short story" I told her. "You should write it." Poor thing is way too upset to see the humor in the situation. Child is apparently hell-bent on building a Buddhist shrine in her bedroom and the Linda Blair Dolly is a key part of it. Child is, if you're interested, six or seven. Aah, Los Angeles, City of Angels and Poltergeists and Weird & Wonderfulness. When I was six, I'd be building lego houses, but then, that's me.
Note to the foodies: Providence on Melrose (in the old Patina space) = very good food. Very fine food indeed. J took me out for our anniversary on Monday and we stuffed our faces very happily on five delicious courses of mostly things from the sea (with a little bit of rhubarb and foie gras on the side). J is the most fun person to go to dinner with because he just loves food in that deliciously gluttonous childlike way. Just like me really. He lets out oohs and aahs as he eats, and pushes his fork over to me with a "try this." For a pretentious restaurant it wasn't pretentious at all. The waiters were charming and helpful. The somellier was a woman who seemed gleeful about her job and wildly enthusiastic. And the greeter/maitre d', sporting a blue and white spotted dress seemed so genuinely pleased to see us that I wondered for a moment if I knew her from somewhere else (I don't think I did).
I feel better now. Funny that, isn't it. Every time I spew out drivvel I feel refreshed, renewed and ready to take on the world, or at least Martina Navratilova.
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