It’s Fashion Week in New York City.
Actually, Fashion Week began last Thursday, a full four days ago – the fact that I am just catching on is proof enough of just how unfashionable I am, here in unfashionable Boston.
Further proof of my lack of fashion savoir faire: it would never occur to me to begin a Week on a Thursday. Anyone inclined toward symmetry would pick Sunday or Monday to begin a Week.
It's Labor Day -- can the Carpool Blues be far behind? Here's another tune from "Songs of Domestic Bliss" -- a hymn for the season.
Click here for listening, lyrics and free download!
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Husband Steve is cavorting with his brothers in the Basque motherland. My older child, a college junior, is leading a group of incoming freshmen on a kayaking expedition in the glorious Pacific Northwest. Child #2 is off to orchestra camp, to spend a week playing Grieg, Stravinsky and Wagner with 100 of her new best friends.
And I am home, defrosting the freezer.
It didn't work out so well for Whitey, either.
A few weeks ago, I posted a blog entry ("Whitey Bulger in the Garden") in which I enthused, rather smugly, about the many strategies I have employed to keep marauding members of the animal kingdom out of my veggie patch. I was particularly eloquent about a certain electric fence we'd installed -- a single wire, set at bunny height, which would deliver to any encroaching rabbit a jolt big enough to scare him off, but not enough to do any actual harm. At that point, the fence seemed to have been completely successful: parsley, beets, and beans, veggies that had been chomped to the ground in previous years, had all survived and thrived.
Then I went on vacation for a week. Here's what I found when I returned:
I am sitting in a vacation cottage in Maine, watching the late afternoon sun glint off the water, listening to the calling of the gulls. It is lovely and peaceful. What a treat to let my mind wander at such moments, wherever it wants to go, contemplating the great and small questions of the universe: what's for dinner? And is it too soon to start cooking?
Probably my favorite song from "Songs of Domestic Bliss" -- and now with a video, in case you're one of those people who prefers to watch your music rather than just listening. Or you can just listen, on the Music page or the sidebar to the left.
Let me just say right now that I was working on this song long before Sarah Palin was a gleam in John McCain's eye.....
I am one of those people who feels most alive when my hands are plunged wrist-deep in compost-enriched soil. But before you imagine me working my way into a Zen-like state of oneness with all things, let me set the record straight. I see a tomato hornworm burrowing into one of my Brandywines, and I turn into Tony Soprano.
You've heard of singing telegrams....why not a singing mammogram? Click on "read more" to watch the video -- and then forward it to your over-40 woman friends!
The first weekend of our empty nest trial run culminated in a wild naked bicycle ride through the streets of Cambridge.
I am itching to record a second album.
My first album, “Songs of Domestic Bliss,” sold like hotcakes. I can say that because nobody, in 2013, buys hotcakes; who even knows what hotcakes are? In the final tally, gross sales of the album made almost enough to pay for the snacks that I fed to my musician friends--almost, but not quite, because at one point Steve made martinis for the crowd using really expensive gin. (And don’t ask about net album proceeds. There were no net proceeds.)
