I'm unashamedly watching Downton Abbey. I LOVE the Brits. They are so ridiculous. And they are my people. Heaven help us. Upper class twits in the 20's with all the intrigue below stairs. And this season, o my lord, Shirley McLaine is the American grandma. And she looks, well, whoa.
"There's something Johnny Foreigner about the Catholics".
I plan to drink brandy from a crystal decanter. And I do need a new footman. Oh, and I'd like to be called my lady from now on.
Ooooh, I think the new footman is gay. He's certainly got a lovely six pack. "He looks like a footman in a musical review." Indeed.
I'm the one in the hat and white suit.
Yesterday, while down in Pioneer Square to see my therapist, I got out a few bills for TJ, the homeless man who sits under the wrought iron and glass awning. Yesterday there were two happy birthday balloons and a big pink opened cake box with a message on top--Happy Birthday to Tj and Ben. Ben, a non-homeless man was standing beside TJ and handing out pieces of cake on paper plates. At eight in the morning.
I promptly dropped my piece of cake on my therapist's carpet but that's another story.
I cleaned out my studio today. It took me three hours. I always think I'll throw out a bunch of stuff but I end up on the floor going through old photos and notes and cards from my kids. Stacks of old photos. People who are now dead. A whole box of James' writings and his photos. Old lovers. I managed to wrassel a box of stuff for Good Will. And I felt virtuous besides. I moved art supplies around and dusted. I threw open the windows too. I didn't start a painting. That's tomorrow.