I haven't felt much inspired to blog lately. But where there is mortification, there is inspiration.
Tonight I answered the door (after two near misses with Jehovah's Witnesses twice this weekend--the pamphlets slipped under the front door being the dead giveaway) to our new-ish neighbor that I had yet to meet. She is the very cute and hip (in a punk rock sort of way) daughter of a Hollywood producer and tonight she and her visiting friends from Philly found themselves in need of a blender to make some frothy beverages. "I'm your neighbor by the way", she said, holding out her youthful paw. "Yes," I thought, "how lucky you must feel to live next to an old hag who is already in her dorky pajama bottoms with strawberries on them (why, WHY couldn't I have picked the stripes tonight?), a ratty white t-shirt and some grey socks at 7:00 pm in the evening." But, not only did I have on a humiliating outfit, I also happened to have Everwood paused on the TiVo (embarrassing when you are clearly in your 30s), and the only remotely youthful thing immediately visible to her (a hip hop CD of David's) as she hovered in the hallway was something I knew nothing about. "How's that CD?" she said. "No idea", I said. "It belongs to my boyfriend." Would it have been so hard to just white-lie it, and say, "Oh it's great! But not as good as their earlier stuff."?
And giving my blender (and beloved member of my Cuisinart family) to someone who barely looks 21? What was I thinking? I may as well have handed her some Don Julio and the car keys.
