Oh Toto there's no place like home

I’m going to buy a Maltese (house trained) and name him/her Toto. In my dreams–though my coop is friendlier to dogs than people.
We have red sequined slippers somewhere in our massive shoe collection.

Then we’re going to stay sort of safely at home forever.

We’ve always been famous on the Upper West Side for the quality of our doggie treats. Not me, personally–the building staff and coop board.

I’m famous for saying–in the elevator, “get that dog–or dogs–out of my crotch.”

Well, I don’t actually say that last part.

At way past three in the morning–yesterday? Today? It felt so good to walk into my spotless, beautiful 630 square feet.

The first five days of my mostly ill fated trip to California, it rained. Then I got bronchitis.

It’s hard to appreciate other places when all I could think about was–nothing actually.

A few things: how women complain; men opine. That can’t be original to me–it’s so clever, but I’ll accept credit.

Men get to be columnists and talk about their navels. They’re applauded for their bravery and openness. Women are called bitches for thinking anything that’s not cute, acceptable or introspective. Oh did I say introspective? Meant cute or cloying. Think the worst fridge magnets or sofa pillows. Think any sofa pillow. they’re acceptable.

Thought about that a lot. It felt like my brain had a rewind machine going through it and only the same five thoughts were allowed to penetrate.

The first five hours of the flight home were fine. Then the last hour was constant nose diving turbulence.

I’ve been in so many “almost hijackings,’ almost plane crashes,” that I was about the only person not scared.

Then we landed at Kennedy. It was an hour late; four full plane loads converged on one luggage carousel. That scared me.

I didn’t realize my luggage was so good looking, and admired it profusely as it passed twenty times. What can I say? One black suitcase; one red one–and I had forgotten to put something that would have easily identified it on.

It didn’t really matter as people (who were very nice and well mannered) were having the same problem and everybody seemed to grab somebody else is luggage. It was hard to get to the correct luggage, as there was so much luggage on one carousel. Nobodies fault–well maybe the airlines, but I’m not into placing blame here. I don’t celebrate Easter, and hadn’t realized that I was coming home on Easter Monday. Guess that’s what it’s called.

But I think all luggage eventually went to the right owner. That took about an hour and a half .

Tried calling some car services. They rightly told me that I should have made the reservation before arriving at Kennedy.

Used to love Kennedy when I was a kid. It meant–why it meant flying somewhere!!! Or picking up family and friends. Used to be able to watch people arrive from above Customs. There was a kind of glamour to flying then. I could stay all day in airports; and there was a great Chinese restaurant my family would go to on our way home.

Last night there was the cab line. By the time I arrived at it; my luggage was sopping and my bronchitis had decided to come out of hiatus.

Did talk to the most beautiful, sweetest man. Actually he was the most beautiful man I have ever seen up close but not too personal. His skin matched the Carmel of his jacket. His eyes–I couldn’t stop staring into them, and I can’t even describe them now. I wanted him to change sexual preferences at once. A girl can dream.

Then the limo drivers descended. Pretended I didn’t speak English or any known language. That usually works. But they were like flies on dead meat–well by that time nothing except for the man in back of me was pretty. Wouldn’t go with any on general principle. The more they begged….

When I finally got a cab, I told the cab driver my street and made him repeat the street number. I couldn’t see out of the windows too well as the sides were all fogged. He went two blocks too far. At that time of night it felt like twelve hundred blocks.

But he finally found the right street, and …I couldn’t get into my building!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The doorman (need a graph to keep up with all the new ones) was otherwise occupied for what seemed like forever. If he asked me for ID I probably would be in jail right now. He didn’t so I over tipped him.

It was so good to be home. But my land phone had died while I was away–have phone company voice mail, so I never miss a message. My desk top’s half or two thirds dead, and no, I haven’t tried the TV or stereo yet– a bit scared to.

It was four thirty by then, and soon the sun (such as it is) began to come up.

My bronchitis is back with a vengeance. I took a two hour nap; I have driven some of my favorite people crazy, and should be apologizing but…

Lucia’s daughter, the best most beautiful smartest fourteen year old on the planet sold a design for a perfume bottle to Tommy Hilfiger. Can’t decide whether her new name should be Ghettogirl or Phat girl.

Oh hell, she gets to decide as very soon she’s going to be supporting us all.

I’ve known since she was an infant how special she was, and that she would be supporting us in our dotage.

Just didn’t think that my dotage would happen so young.

Little Luce is fourteen and more successful than I am. Not really, but it sounds good. I do so like to whine.

May this be the first of many many successes.

Oh, Toto I’m so glad we’re home.

“Toto where are you?”

“Toto…”

So sad when I lose my own imaginary Maltese.