The last time I wrote you a ginnygram, we were about to stay home for the long Labor Day weekend and let Isaac water the plants down in the Wabash Valley. I’m not sure Isaac manned up and got the job done, but it looks like some of his entourage, trailers-on, and wannabes are scattering around that part of the Midwest, so I won’t worry. (Although it sounds like I should maybe lock up my plants, the way mothers lock up their daughters when the bikers ride through, on their way to Sturgis.)
So we stayed in town and acted like regular people. Instead of like the hermits that we truly are.
On Friday, we dropped in on a Gutierrez wedding celebration. The young fellow who has been freshening up our brick patios and walkways, admitted to Bill on Thursday that he’d try to get another coat of sealer down “tomorrow,” but he’s getting married that day, and isn’t sure he’ll make it. WHAT? Jose! You never said anything about getting married! And he hadn’t, not to ANYONE EXCEPT HIS BRIDE, Marisol. So yes, Jose, we’d love to come to your reception. It was fun and no, there was not a pinata, but Billy pouted because I wouldn’t let him wear his cowboy boots.
On Saturday evening, we had dinner with Anne and Jeff. Just we two and they two, in their three-flat tree-house in Oak Park. Vintage table linens, flowers and greenery cut from their decadent urban gardenscape, candles everywhere, Mad Men whiskey sours under the wisteria, lots and lots of laughing and storytelling. And the moon came out, just as we settled on the second-story deck aerie for Anne’s panna cotta with strawberries in balsamico. On the drive home, I felt overcome by hospitality. What a gift, to be so enveloped in warmth and goodness by longtime friends.
Now Sunday was self-inflicted. These are Jell-O shots at midnight. Which were a hilarious contribution from Fran (who even knows two Francii? much less has them in the same place at the same time?) And went into the wee hours. Frances (not to be confused with Jell-O Fran) showed off her new tattoo, which she hopes says in Hindi, “No man alive knows the challenges I’ve survived.” I’m afraid she has added Sunday night to her short-list of challenges. I myself slept until 1:00 in the afternoon on Monday.
By the time Labor Day finally got here, I was thinking about checking into the Jenny Craig Wing of the Betty Ford Clinic. (Not really, Mama.) But instead, we walked next door with leftover Jell-O shots and some leftover chilled asparagus that I wrapped in leftover prosciutto. You’ll remember that next door has a pool. Billy did win the argument to wear his swim trunks. But I told my neighbor Rosemary that I’d left my invisibility cloak at the lake house, and so I couldn’t get in the pool. I think she believed me. Anyway, I finally met the lady who lives across the street. She and her husband moved in five years ago. In my mind, her name has been The Pretty Polish Lady Who Walks Her Dogs in High Heels (she wears them, not the dogs). Joan is her real name, and she was firm with me on the Polish thing: She’s German-Hungarian. And to her, I’ve been The Famous Woman Who Never Leaves Her House. Famous, because we shot a commercial at our house a few years ago, and we had crews and cameras all over the place, and we were the talk of the block. And while I certainly do leave my house, I usually leave by the secret cave opening in the alley. I think she believed me.
Phew. This was a long blog. Sorry, but I guess I had to get it all out. I feel better.
I’m going back into my cave now.
ginnygram 