sketches, not of spain

the ballet is lovely. the girl with the red hands is dancing. balanchine's birthday and too many encores. tulle floats. structure, bodies entwined.

my mother doesn't know how I take my coffee.

there are nancy boys on the tennis courts, I hit a few zingers.

there is white asparagus at the farmer's market.

sweet peas are vibrant, oysters are sweetly briney, the muscadet is crisp, the bay is lolling against the piers.

there are too many dorothy's and too many brick roads to follow at the sing along wizard of oz.

somewhere over the rainbow makes me weep.

my mother exclaims that I shoudln't date players, but I should take my vitamins, just in case I should find myself knocked up... and she has nothing against brown babies... she is desperate for a grandchild.

more tennis.

lake street, overcast yet warm. half dead balls, an accidental backhand, the perfect rally.

sharing a bed with your mother. keeps you up at night, at one point I roused myself for fear that I was having a dirty dream. she was snoring, thank heavens.

shopping, I say buy, she holds back. I thought she might have been suffiently lubricated after two glasses of wine at lunch, it was just her tongue and not her pocketbook...

so on my own, I managed two shades of lipstick, three pairs of knickers and one pair of superfly pumas.

this evenings tv quotes.

on sixty minutes, david clark, former terrorism czar, they will admit that they were wrong when hell freezes over.

on the simpsons, come and suckle daddy's sugar ball.

on the sopranos, T to uncle june, don't you love me?