Tomorrow night I'm hosting book club for the premiere time. We read Dracula this month, which lends itself to a wonderful potluck: red trifle, bat-shaped cookies, pulpy-looking aubergine, red wine, Bloody Marys--basically heaps of tomato sauce and red food dye. Martha would be proud. So would Morticia.
Less than two weeks until Big Day 2008. If I think about it for too long, I get mega butterflies. Jurassic Park butterflies. I'm just so nervous. I think I will lose all faith in America if--
No. Not even considering it. Enjoy these last few days of ... (Bush?) Bake in blissful ignorance.
The trees are all thrashy and wind-whipped outside. Thank goodness my day revolves around my kitchen. My level of desire to go outside is on par with my desire to go to the gym, my desire to consider possible outcomes of the election, and my desire to read the November issue of Bazaar, which has a flag-draped Drew Barrymore on the cover. (Wha??)
The November issue of Rolling Stone, however, is thick, glossy, standard-sized, Obama-adorned, and contains the utterly best, most touching, most reverent article about David Foster Wallace that I've seen anywhere. It's a collector's issue if ever there was one.
Enjoy your Saturdays, pumpkins.