So I’m sick, Jolie is lame (threw herself a little too vigorously down a set of stairs), and we’re all exhausted, but it’s still New Year’s Eve, by gum.
“By gum” is, by the way, the sort of thing I tend to say when I am sick and exhausted with a dog who’s limping around off her left front leg, but still won’t stop racing around like a tippy little psycho.
“What are you blogging about?” Nick demands.
“This,” I say.
“What?”
“This!”
“Me wrestling with the dog?”
Yes.
We picked up the first round of our wedding registry gifts today (our account never expires, we don’t feel like talking to anyone about delivery, and we don’t have a car; this will take a very long time). Then we dropped off Nick’s wedding ring to be sized, so I’ve been faking horrified all afternoon about how it’s been all of two weeks and he’s not even wearing his ring anymore. And Nick got me designer water (Evian in a Christian Lacroix bottle; what?), and we’re drinking champagne from our crystal and shortly will be drinking wine from our other crystal.
“She knows you’re writing about her,” Nick glowers, gesturing to Jolie. “She can tell, and she is not happy about it.”
Anyway. The party is here tonight, with stew made of leftovers from our first-in-ages Fondue Saturday, a 1991-something-Nick-is-proud-of, and our limpy little dog. We’re not going out, certainly; we’re not especially inclined to ever leave again.
It’s just as well; it’s crazy out there. I got the last baguette de tradition from Desgranges (the rock star’s bakery has been closed all week), and some lunatic kid took a swing at Nick at the grocery store earlier this evening (seriously). The nuts are out in full force, but I’ve got onions that made me cry like a baby in good French butter and some cream sherry creating a base for a beef stew in red wine and beef broth, and my very slightly mellowed-by-marriage husband made me a wide range of home remedies this morning, and….
We are not especially inclined to ever leave again.