beulahbondo's Diaryland Diary

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My wife, the quiet Beatle

Oof! After four days of eating pie for breakfast, I am BLUBBY! I had it under control until Sister discovered that a sliver of apple pie really brings out the tartness of a slice of cherry...

So, post-Thanksgiving and pre-Christmas, it's a most wonderful time of the year. I have parties and events every night this week except tonight. Good thing, because I want to watch the exciting conclusion of the Cajun mom/vegan mom swap places on "Trading Sp0uses."

I hosted Sister Nilla, brother-in-lore John Francis, and Prima and Secunda for Thanksgiving. The girls were thrilled to bits with apartment life. Couldn't get enough of the door buzzer, and thought my tiny kitchen was hilarious. We went to dessert at Donna Puma and Giuliano's, where Prima took a cue from the long, long polished floor of their loft and break-danced and vogued all night.

During one of our long family conversations about the Beatles, Secunda announced that she had a new favorite: George. "He's my wife!" she told us. Prima and I took out my Linda biography and Heather autobiography for a side-by-side comparison of the McCartney wives, and Prima confirmed that she loves Linda more. (One afternoon after school, she made her best friend play that they were Heather and Linda and they worked in a factory. Linda was the nice one.)

(For those of you new to the family tree, Prima is seven and Secunda is four. Secunda thinks I'm a teenager. Because I'm not married. Not like her, with her wife George.)

For work this month I am editing an art teacher colleague's first novel. As a writer, she's a very good painter. Not really. That's mean. Actually it's not bad. It cuts like buttah. She has way too meaningless looks between characters -- "He looked at me and then at the tea kettle." -- and too many bits of business that are logical but unnecessary -- "I came into the room and reached for the phone." The occasional absurdity: "He looked at me from beneath lidded eyes." Underneath all the verbiage is, I think, a pretty compelling story about ... a painter.

Okay, I need to put down the computer and walk into the other room and look into my closet and select a stretchier pair of sweatpants. She sighed.

Fare thee well,
Beulah

7:35 p.m. - 2004-11-29

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