As you may have noticed, the holidays are upon us with a vengeance and as mentioned in a previous post I am doing my level best to live up to the challenge.
Last week saw five days partying in New York, taking in a Bob Dylan concert, The Rockettes Christmas Extravaganza and The Book of Mormon. I enjoyed several dinners and lunches, in between some Sancerre-fueled shopping.
Back home last night I partook of libation with friends and wound up playing pool in a gay bar ‘til the small hours of the morning. I am not gay and I don’t know how to play pool, so you may ask the obvious question, to which I have only one answer -“It’s the holidays.”
Rain is forecast. Actually The Pineapple Express is surging our way. Rain in LA unnerves us. Californians have a pathological fear of getting wet unless we’re at the ocean or in the pool. We have mudslides and flooding, but you will rarely hear that from us. It’s similar to childbirth, the minute it’s over we don’t want to think about it.
We have no clue how to drive in the rain. People aquaplane down the Pacific Coast Highway as if they’re on the Roaring Rapids at a water park. But after months of wearing tshirts even the slightest precipitation gives us the welcome opportunity to dress in Uggs and raincoats and wooly scarves.
For the kind of deluge that’s battering its way to us we know to cancel everything and hole up like Armageddon. It’s extreme. I mean I’ve even been known to postpone a root touch-up knowing the hairdresser will be staying home too.
Still, our holiday lights are battery operated. The fridge is stocked with festive fare. The fire is lit. I can do no more… guess I’ll see you on the other side…
