Holy Cokunion.

Ok. Let's see.
Once again- no- twice again now, I have begun blogs and then hit that damned button combination that I have mentioned before. So this time I am typing like my fingers are en pointe.
So this will probably be very short.
The other night I was up all night sweating and having heart palpitations because I had a nightmare where I ran into Tom in a mud shower in the grand foyer of a delapitated historical New Orleans mansion and he immediately turned into John Lithgow and began trying to murder me.
Terror. He LOVES that I had this dream.
So in the intervening time since last I blogged, I have done much of the same as I have been doing. Helped Sam pack primarily. We had everything boxed up and ready to go and found ourselves with half an hour of downtime so he flopped out and began drooling and I put some Ben Folds on the music player and began to read. His mother calls within seconds. And proceeds to call every 54 seconds on the button for the next half hour.
She was on her way to New York and, true to form, had decided to overrule all of Sam's instructions on how to drive into Manhattan and to follow her GPS. Unfortunately the GPS directed her to a small island in the middle of the Atlantic that Sam had never heard of.
I stop listening after phone call #6.
She finally arrives, with her dog Petra, a Ziploc bag of gorgeous mushy banana bread (I can make some bitchin' banana bread, if anyone was wondering) and fully gowned in a brown velour sweatsuit with an enormous pink poppy embroidered over the right half of her butt.
Sam and his mother both declare right off that it will be no problem to have this all loaded in about twenty minutes.
We then spend about an hour and a half discussing, staring, eating bread, feeding the dog, speaking with the dog, arguing, debating, sobbing, sweating, etc. until the decision is finally made as to what needs to be carried out to the truck first.
There is a small bald man who sits out on Sam's stoop everyday and has for the last 22 years or something like that who does not speak to anyone, but beams at you if you make eye contact, and when he walks, tilts noticeably to the rear. This is reportedly due to a lobotomy he experienced early on in life. We know this because June, Sam's landlady, is very forthcoming and Swedish.
The truck is finally successfully, and I might add, impressively loaded. Sam's mother has contorted herself several times throughout the evening into the size of pretzel that would fit into a box of Nerds.
During all this, I have lashed the dog to the piano. Having figured out that this was the best way to contain the animal, I performed the slip knot with great speed and agility and was secretly very impressed with myself and thought my father would be proud.
Then Sam and his mother go out for steaks and I go home for chunk chicken.
I don't remember what happened the day after that. Oh yes I do. I went into Manhattan for some small errand or the other, and once completed, decided I would walk to the top of Central Park. From Union Square. Took quite some time. Was FORCED to buy a bottle of water. That is one good thing about oppressive heat and thighs that touch. You want, and get, water.
Walked almost to the top. Which was lovely, and windy and I saw the Alice in Wonderland statue behind which Michael Hawke likes to tell me, he would lay out in the grass and charbroil himself for years at a time. Was excited about walking all the way up to the "Resevoir." Because on the map of the park just outside of giant stone prison that gets no mention on any map anywhere and may have just been in my imagination, the "Resevoir" looks enormous and very alluring.
Finally crest the hill, my calves pouring blood from my orthopedic shoes, and see it.
I approach.
Very unimpressive. It's just an enormous water hole with a wrought-iron fence around it. You may in no way approach the water, or even sit near it. Unless you want a fence pole up your instep.
Thusly discouraged, I exit the park at my nearest exit. Find myself on 89th and Central Park West. The nearest subway that I know of to get back (which is not saying a whole lot) is located at 50th. So I text Joseph to get his opinion. He texts back the same one I am thinking of. I think to myself, "I should have texted Sam."
So I walk. I stop on benches every 30 blocks or so to do a crossword. Am almost up to the Wednesdays. Once that happens I will be irate for days at a time. (Adam- I hope you're practicing.)
I go home to wait for Sam to call me. We had plans to go to Philly the next day and be touristy.
Sam does call me shortly thereafter.
We then spend an illuminating evening in the emergency room of Lenox Hill Hospital. Nothing happened, everyone is fine. High points of the night were the baby that was ahead of Sam in line in the lobby to be admitted to triage who was squealing and flashing her Flintstones panties, drinking handsoap out of the wall dispenser and singing about sunshine and vitamins. Clearly NOT ill. Also the other woman in line ahead of Sam. Looked a lot like Deb Clinton and as near as we could tell was stricken with the debilitating heath scare of having a rip in her contact.
We are finally taken back by Peter, who is a jolly, (Sam said homosexual) Korean teddy bear of a fellow. As he is taking Sam's information, he pauses periodically to have a gentle ribbing session with another nurse over who is using more of the printer paper, and to provide a detailed and lengthy explanation to an elderly gentleman in a dapper gray golf shirt who has staggered into the office on where he may go smoke his cigarette. Meanwhile Sam is fairly sure that his other lung is now collapsing. Oh well, priorities.
Sam compliments Peter on his sneakers. Peter is genuinely insulted.
Anyway, we finally go back to hook Sam up to the machines. We discover that Sam does not produce blood, only clotted cherry preserves.
We discover that in New York, the little sticky things they apply all over your chest to give you an EKG are substantially larger than those they use in Richmond. These are far too large for me to have gotten one lost under my breast for days.
We discover that after the late late late late late late re-run of the prior late show is over, poker comes on tv. Well, really only I discover that as at some point the doctor came in, pressed and prodded Sam all while staring deeply into my eyes, and then injected Sam's iv with some pain meds. He shortly thereafter started kicking his legs under the blanket like a toddler splashing in a mud puddle, giggling, and then zonked completely out.
We ulitmately discover that nothing serious is the matter, unplug Sam and go to the Hot & Crusty on 1st at 4 o'clock in the morning for pizza and sandwiches. This was very thrilling for me.
We then sleep.
I then apply putty to the nail holes in the walls of Sam's apartment. I cannot express in numeric form that human beings can grasp how many of those there are. Sam is an amazing, THOROUGH decorator.
I then become severely cranky and go home for a nap.
Joseph comes home and after he and Bri chug a gallon of Nutella and giggle about their new plates they are going to hang on the wall (I pointed out that it would be REALLY too bad if ever there were a earthquake) we head to Perry's for a relaxing evening of playing cards and eating salad.
Today I went to a very fishy and suspicous casting call, but it was interesting enough to stay for. Had my polaroid taken by some Ukranian woman with bobbed red curls. I was told they "liked my blue eyes." Very funny.
Then came home, read a book Joseph had fed me the night before about a woman's struggle with anorexia, bulimia, everything else under the sun that had me feeling like pressing my face into an iron when I was done.
Then got did, shuttled up to Harper Collins where I immediately used the bathroom, and then congregated with Joseph, Perry, Bri, and an entire bushel of Harper Collins publicists to begin the trek to someplace called Dumbo in Brooklyn where there was a very hooty hoo book-signing going on.
I was promised food, so I went.
This flock of Harper Collins people was most I think, like the Pick-A-Little ladies from The Music Man.
Never in my life have I seen so many pink slacks, white shoes (ONLY FOR TWO MORE WEEKS CAN WE RUN THIS RISK!!-Joseph Papa), fluorescent pink tropical flower printed shirts (this was the men), and skirts skirts skirts (from the girls). Skirts with things like green thin vines growing up your behind from the hem. Draws attention. Sometimes unnecessarily.
Everyone was flitting and schmoozing their way through the subway station. I took one look at Perry and realized that he was with me in that I would be much happier sitting on a porch shelling beans.
We go to a cement bookstore with columns and ART on the walls in this place called Dumbo. It is actually quite nice. I eat all of their grapes and am poured a cup of Diet Coke by the daughter of the author who seemed to be under the impression she was portioning out the liquid for Holy Communion.
As soon as it is over, I make sure my dress is still zipped, ask Perry where I am in the world, and play another round of Where Will This Subway Take You?
Arrived home. Tired. Tomorrow am going to Philadelphia with Sam, where I am in hopes that Alyse's mother will make us some grilled cheeses.
Robyn and Ginnie are back from California. That's good. I will keep my eyes peeled for the CNN report of Doris Day's disappearance.