My Christmas movie par excellence: The Family Stone. What a nice conceit, that it takes place in a Northeastern Tuscan villa. I cried my eyes to cinders, as I always do.

Does anyone else agree with me that the ghastly dinner-table conversation about “the gays” and, from Sarah Jessica Parker’s character’s standpoint, not “wishing being gay” on anyone, is the most arresting stretch of dialogue in twenty-first-century movies so far? Enough!, her prospective inlaws keep shouting. You hate her. But you know that she’s you. You were just like her until a month or so ago. Maybe not you.

It would have been interesting to grow up having brothers — I think. Well, it would have been interesting to have had blood relatives.

***

I’m  getting dressed and going out, to run a round of errands. It isn’t so bad out there today as it was yesterday; the snow has entirely disappeared. But it’s still pretty wet and cold. I have shoes for such days. They look like leather, if you don’t look too closely, and they’re always bright and shiny. And impermeable. They’re actually great shoes. Why don’t I wear them all the time? Because I feel like a prudent octagenarian every time I put them on. It might be less comfortable, but I prefer to slip into penny loafers, the type of shoe I’ve been wearing since I was a teenager.  

My itinerary includes HousingWorks, Duane Reade, Fairway, the post office, Morning Calm, Agata & Valentina, and — is that all? I’ve got to pick up something for dinner, but what? Facing this question last night, and not wanting to go out, I was relieved to find some very nice lamb chops in the fridge. I had planned to have them on Sunday, the day after they were delivered by the butcher. But plans were changed, and the lamb chops aged. Another day, and they would have gotten a bit too gamy for our taste.  

My Christmas present from Will’s parents was a set of four Carlsberg beer bottles that had been recycled into tumblers; tall, narrow, and bottle green, they’re just the thing for me, and I decided to use them for my whiskey nightcap. But they will take some getting used to, because they’re just t00-tall enough to be caught by cabinet doors and passing hands. I must have dumped a pint of whiskey onto the bedroom floor last night, in three spills. Thank heaven (Kathleen certainly does) it wasn’t Laphroaig.

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
This entry was posted on Thursday, December 27th, 2012 at 2:45 am.