An Americana's Life in Italy: August 2006

Memory is a Bitch

In 1990, I was a senior in highschool and had just moved to San Francisco. My father had a furnished businessman's apartment on Nob Hill (Snob Hill) and I stayed with him until our house in Marin County was ready.

During the day, I'd walk up and down the hills of the San Francisco financial district. One day, I bought a used paperback book and read it. The only thing I remembered about the book was that the main character ends up walking into a river at the end. I wrote about it in my diary and likened myself to the character.

All these years, I'd think about that book--the title and author of which I couldn't remember. It killed me I couldn't remember. Then, yesterday, while leaving the Astor Place Six station on my way to work, I thought, "Danny Deck." That was what I thought the main character's name was.

Sure enough, I just googled it and it was a book by Larry McMurtry titled All My Friends Will Be Strangers. But what frightens me is that I knew that name for all these many years but didn't know I knew it.

Like a necklace lost in the folds of a purse, it had been with me the whole time.

What is better than a rainstorm?

I love rain storms. When I lived in San Francisco, it was very rare to get any thunder and lightning. I missed the big, house-shaking storms of my youth in Illinois. Now I'm in New York and there's nothing better than being inside during one of these. I love when the temperature drops about ten or fifteen degrees and the wind picks up. Newspapers start blowing around. Grit gets in the eye. Then there are the first initial drops and a crack of thunder. If I'm lucky I get to watch this from a window. If not, it's time to run to the deli and beg for a couple plastic bags to wrap my purse in as I walk home from the subway train.

Sorry no joke. I really do love rain storms.

Baking Cookies

Sorry I've been such a bad blogger. I've had this freelance gig where I'm on site. My project is like someone gave me a batch of cookies to bake: once the cookies are made, the job is over. If the boss walked in and saw me smoking cigarettes while watching The Tyra Banks Show, I'd be fired.

So if the boss walks in and sees me blogging that means one of two things: the job is over or I'm goofing off. I gotta shuck and jive for the man. I can't wait until I get a real job; I gotta catch up on all those hair and make up tips.

Glad I'm Not Flying Today

No ipod and no in-flight shampoo make Maulleigh go something something.

Crazy?

Don't Mind if I do!!

Oprah A-Ha Moment

I came home last night and found two complete strangers camped out on the living room floor. The 15-year-old girl introduced herself as the little sister of my roommate; she then introduced me to her 19-year-old husband who was SMOKIN HOT in a young dumb jarhead kind of way. They were cavorting and laughing and cute as hell in their "we're in love and from the South!" kind of way. (I give them a year).

I excused myself to go to my room with my tatting, my book of common prayer and my cold cold spinster bed.

When I went to brush my teeth, one of them had taken my pump soap from the shower and had evidently been using it.

It was then that I knew what I'd always suspected: I hate to share.

***Update: came home from CT and my New York Times had been broken into and was on the floor of my room. Behind my closed door. A door with a sticky note on it saying "Please just leave my New York times for me. Thank you!" I want to read the New York Times now about as much as I want to be guy 26 in a gang bang.

I talked to my sister and she said to "let it go" so I will; but I won't enjoy it. On the other hand, I just saw a low-flying chevron of Canadian Geese right outside my window.

What would you rather do?

For a whole year, you can either:

eat whatever food the Duane Reade offers (no take out, no restaurant meals, no grocery shopping) or

read whatever books the Duane Reade offers (does not include magazines and newspapers. Only the pulp bestsellers or diet and vitamin books near the pharmacy).