I'm watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (yes: one of my guilty pleasures). There are all these women, Kyle Richards who was a child star and is the sister of Kathy Hilton and aunt to Paris; Camille Grammer, bitter ex-wife of Kelsey; and a half-dozen others, famous (well, sorta famous) women who spend $30,000 on a pocketbook, who live in houses bigger than most hotels, attractive botoxed broads who have not much better to do than go to parties and drive expensive cars and eat in fine restaurants. In fact, at this moment as I'm watching and writing, they've just sat down to a meal at Charlie Palmer Steak in Vegas. Charlie Palmer, Master Chef. Charlie Palmer, who has fine restaurants all over the country. Charlie Palmer, who graduated three years behind me in high school, who lived in a tiny town nearby that was even tinier than my tiny town. We knew him as "Chick" back then. He and I shared a home-economics teacher from whom he clearly learned more about cooking than I did. Charlie Palmer, that nice kid underclassman who has made such a success of himself that he's got botoxed broads from Beverly Hills eating in one of his many restaurants and they're showing it on TV. My mind goes a little haywire as I watch this. Good for you, Charlie. We're so proud of you here in your old hometown.
I got up at 6 a.m. today. One eye peeped opened, and then the other one's lids popped apart around 6:30. I was watching the coffee boil at 6:45, marveling at what outside looks like at that time of day, misty and gray, snowy this time of year, impossibly quiet. As I've mentioned more than once, I'm a night owl, but this morning's work required that I rise early. By 10 a.m. I'd gotten scads of work done, and by noon I felt like I'd put in a full day at the stockyards. Now it's 9:30 p.m. and I think I'm hallucinating. How do people do this, get up so early? I mentioned my pre-dawn awakening to several friends and got shocked gasps. I'm afraid this early bird news will end up in the paper.
It's been bitter cold here. Bitter. My sister, weather-watcher, reported that it was 15 below the other morning (she's one of those nuts who gets up at six). It was so cold the other day Harry couldn't move in the back yard. I had to rush out in socked feet to cart him back into the house, a whining frozen fish stick. In fact we were both whining. I. Am. Over. This. Weather. I'm dreaming about golf and green lawns. And Charlie Palmer's restaurant in Vegas, where it's warm. I should have been nicer to the kid in high school, maybe I could have gotten an invite out to Vegas for a winter vacation and a good meal.
No comments:
Post a Comment