|Rhinebeck, 5:15 p.m.|
|Hudson, 6:00 p.m.|
Hello sweetheart, back from a lovely afternoon, lunch out and a movie. I'm enjoying sitting up here with my usual glass of icefilled pink wine, still in my dressy outfit, the one I wore last weekend to the E.D. soiree. I love this outfit, the whole thing, including parts that people don't see, such as the beautiful black lacy undergarments, and opaque hose. And I have to say, all those walks & workouts have paid off - my legs are quite shapely - for me anyway, who was never petite. And freshly washed hair, silver wristwatch, spritzes of Miss Dior, heels... I enjoy getting dressed up once in a while. Not that the outfit screams so dressy - it's just very nice, and flattering, and attractive.
I had a half-price certificate, and in my finery enjoyed taking myself out to my favorite airy restaurant in town, where I sipped a glass of Spanish white rioja (I think?), nibbled on earthy, warmed baguette slices slathered with bits of icecold butter, and savored an elegant shallow bowl of duck cannellini (white bean) soup, which turned out to be dark golden, savory, rich, and hearty - very satisfying.
Afterward I drove down to Rhinebeck, and saw the new George Clooney movie, which I enjoyed, but didn't love. It felt derivative to me somehow -- as though either John Sayles had already done something like it, or might have done it better. Still, I enjoyed it very much, perhaps especially the quirky glimpses and portraits of bright, misfitted, heart-feeling youth. And Clooney was good, but not entirely credible in this role, not as written anyway. His character becomes obsessed with trying to lay eyes on the man he learns was sleeping with his wife, who's mortally injured and in a coma. And I'm sorry, I couldn't quite let go of my "suspended disbelief" - yeah, if I were George Clooney I too would want to know who the hell my wife could possibly find more sexually appealing & available than a character who looks like George Clooney, and finally, in huge disbelief, lay my eyes on him. (And that all said, Clooney's not a vain actor, good looking as he is. But still... Clark Gable, salt & pepper hair, those looks, those eyes, minimal if any makeup - is still Clark Gable... or George Clooney.)
Sweetheart, I'm fading. I should change my clothes. They're the very ones I'll wear next weekend. Goodness knows I don't want to run my stockings, which are like dancers tights, sturdy & opaque - pulling them on I have uncanny recollections of my girlhood, pulling on tights over my feet, calves, and thighs, pulling them up to my belly. Over which I now smoothe a black knit skirt...
Sweetheart, reluctant to let you go. I wish we could share a bed together, but the one I sleep in these days - I would have to get new bedding. There is something wrong with those sheets, they slip & slide off, the whole night long...
Claire sleeps with me & shows great delicacy, turning to the wall when I, tossing & turning, complain to her about her scratching...
Unlike a party seated at a table near mine, who took to, in the airy delightful expanse with delicious comestibles, tucking with relish into a detailed discussion of waterbugs, how disgusting they are and graphic ways of dispatching them...
At that pained (for me) moment, as I was about to embark on my soup, the Eliot line -- in the room the women come & go talking of Michelangelo - sprang to mind - and honestly, that (and virtually any other subject in this myriad, beautiful, endlessly fascinating world) seemed a much more civilized conversational alternative than this absolutely horrid tableside topic
Oh right, darling, I didn't wish to infect you with it as well
I did shoot a look, and one of the party, a guy, noticed my pained expression, and amused, smiled back --
And that's that dearest, many kisses over the table --
oh please, allow me, I'll pick up the check this time, my love
I have a half-price certificate
but your hand under the linen cloth, where it is
encountering reaches of my shapely knees (Rhinebeck), and regions north --
oh by all means - calculate