Nick is away, so I’ve been watching endless episodes of Sex and the City. I thought it was insipid when it was on, but then Andrea got involved, and now I’m hooked. There is no defense. Someday I will convince her that heroin is the fuel of all true creative geniuses, and we will be even.
For those who have been following along, Jolie is coming back to herself–less shaking and more beating the snot out of Jalouse every day–although her illness is only one of the several disasters we have weathered in Nick’s brief absence. Last night I finally threw sanity to the winds and skipped my habitual balanced, anti-oxident- and omega-3-rich dinner in favor of a bunch of cookies straight from the package. I have always chosen to view myself as decent under pressure, though, and so today I am back on track (two massive tomatoes are roasting in the oven as I type).
There are magazines strewn all over the apartment, so my social plans all involve leaving it.
The weather is lovely, although still not warm. I mean, around three or four in the afternoon it’s downright hot, but I wear a wool coat to take the dogs out at night. “Paris used to be warmer in the summer,” Kristina said. “It really was; I am sure.”
I remember; I was here in something like 2003, and it was blistering. But last summer had nothing of that in it, and this one isn’t shaping up to be any better. Weather-wise, I mean; any summer where I’m not planning a wedding while risking deportation counts as “better.”
Even if my husband is missing for a big chunk of it.